


beyond the gravestones

by snowflake3799



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bisexual John Watson, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, First Time, Flatmate Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Irene Adler Ships Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Jealous John, Jealous John Watson, John Has PTSD, Johnlock - Freeform, Lestrade ships it, Light Angst, M/M, Mary Ships It, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Murder, Murder Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Slowburn Johnlock, Suicide Attempt, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, a lot of tea, but both by a minor character, sherrinford, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 58,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9480782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowflake3799/pseuds/snowflake3799
Summary: All John Watson and Sherlock Holmes wanted was a flatmate. But they ended up with so much more...As John and Sherlock try to deal with their inner conflicts and the aftermath of their 'adventures' with Eurus, fate brings them across an old friend and a new mystery. A man's house is broken into by his dead wife, and the crime sets into motion a series of events that no one - not even Sherlock Holmes - could have anticipated.(Contains slowburn Johnlock) (s4 continuation fic)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP, so the tags are subject to change. The archive warnings won't change, though.  
> I know it's tagged as Parentlock, but after the first few chapters, there's very little Parentlock.  
> If you think this needs any trigger warnings or tags, let me know!  
> Please do leave kudos and comments! It means the world to me :)

The crying woke him up.

Sherlock slipped out of bed, yawning. He made his way to the sitting room to find John sprawled on the sofa, snoring and fidgeting, while Rosie whimpered in her crib. Before she could throw a full-on tantrum, Sherlock quickly made his way over to her, trying not to trip over the toys that littered the floor. John’s bedroom was still being restored. Sherlock had, of course, offered his to Rosie and John, but they couldn’t get the crib through his bedroom door. So for now, the sitting room had been converted into the babysitting room.

Sherlock carefully picked her up, trying to do it the way John had taught him. She shushed a little then, and John opened his eyes. “Yes, look after her this once, will you, Mary?” he mumbled. Sherlock’s heart gave a painful pang, and then John turned over and went back to sleep.

“What’s the problem, now?” Sherlock whispered to Rosie, “Do you need some fresh air?”

He crossed over to the kitchen and opened the window. Perhaps holding a baby next to an open window in the middle of a crisp London night wasn’t the best idea, but Rosie hushed immediately, sucking her thumb and staring up at Sherlock. Yes, she hated the confinement. He absentmindedly stroked her hair and looked out of the window. For once, he was seeing and not observing, for his thoughts were far away, on a guarded island in the middle of a lonely sea.

He wondered what Eurus was up to. He had visited her a few times already. At first, she wouldn’t talk to anyone, wouldn’t even acknowledge their presence. But when he started playing the violin to her, her face would light up, and recently, she had even started playing with him. He wished that he had had more time to get to know her. Psychotic or not, she was his sister, and he really felt for her. He couldn’t believe that Mycroft had kept her locked away all this time, and couldn’t help but think that the confinement had probably made her worse. She was smart, no doubt; she couldn’t channel her intellect the right way was the only problem.

Sherlock had tried to reason with Mycroft, but he was convinced that Eurus _had_ to be confined in the strictest of prisons.

“I know what she’s capable of!” the elder brother had yelled.

“So do I! She played those stupid games with me too, remember? She killed Victor!”

“Those games were a mere sample of her true abilities, brother mine. She murdered three innocent men - alright, one of them was guilty. She killed the Governor and his wife solely for the purpose of her barbaric experiments. She almost made you shoot _me_ \- although I confess, she can’t take full credit for that.” Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but Mycroft cut him off. “In case you’ve forgotten, she almost killed John Watson.”

This was the one argument which always made Sherlock shut up, and Mycroft knew it. He knew the lengths that Sherlock was prepared to go to to keep John safe. Mycroft had known, before Sherlock did, that Sherlock’s love for John was more than just ‘friendly’. And so Mycroft walked out, twirling his umbrella, leaving Sherlock to fume with frustration and deal with his internal conflict.

Sherlock peered through the open kitchen door to John’s sleeping frame on the sofa, pangs of longing in his stomach. How he wanted to go over there and shift John’s head to his lap, stroke his hair softly, and just watch him sleep. But he knew it wasn’t possible. The living, breathing proof was now snoring in his arms. He wound a lock of Rosie’s hair around his finger and thought of Mary and her lingering presence. John still missed her, obviously, but his initial stages of grief had passed. Sherlock missed her, too, but he could deal with it as long as he had John.

He thought about the letter he had received earlier that day. Typical Mary, with her posthumous gifts and messages. The contents of the letter disturbed him more than its author did. _I can’t think about it right now,_ he reminded himself _. There are more important matters to deal with._

Rosie was finally sound asleep. Locking the window securely behind him - he did not fancy another flying grenade in his apartment - he made his way to the living room and settled her comfortably in the crib. He allowed himself another look at John, who somehow looked even more tempting now, although his hair was messy and he drooled slightly. Then he sighed, cast a cursory glance around the living room, and walked back to his bedroom.

* * *

 

“Would you like a cuppa, Rosie?” asked John, enthusiastically waving the teapot around.

Sherlock came out of his bedroom and rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure tea’s not good for babies, John.”

“And who made you the expert on babies?”

“Rosie did. Look! She likes me.” Rosie had spotted Sherlock and was now enthusiastically thrashing about. He smiled, tweaked her nose, and started buttoning his quintessential black coat. John eyed him suspiciously.

“You going out?” he asked.

“Yea, Lestrade needs me to solve a robbery.”

“Already?” asked John. He hesitated. “I thought you might want to take some time off. You know...with everything that’s been happening -”

Sherlock stuffed his muffler into his collar. “Yes, John, I just found out that I have a crazy sister who almost killed all of us, get over it. But I don’t know why that means that I have to stay locked up all day and brood about it. I’m not grieving and I’m not scared, and even if I was, the criminals wouldn’t care. Eurus is in Sherrinford and the cases are _here_. Now, are you coming or not?” He peered expectantly at John.

“Not today. I’m going back to work today, so I’m gonna drop Rosie off at Molly’s. Speaking of Molly -” - Sherlock was already halfway through the door, but John completed the question anyway - “- have you spoken to her at all?” The only answer he got was Sherlock cheerfully waving Mrs Hudson goodbye.

Sherlock got into the cab, gave the driver some directions, and watched Baker Street fade away. Not having John on a case with him felt...odd. “I really am lost without my blogger.” he muttered to himself. When he drew up at the crime scene - a large, imposing bungalow with a neat garden - Lestrade was already waiting for him.

“Mrs Ferrier’s necklace has been stolen.” Lestrade informed him, before he could ask, “An hour ago. She puts it in a cabinet, leaves for a few minutes, and when she comes back, it’s gone.”

“You called me out of my apartment for a stolen necklace?” asked Sherlock in disbelief.

“Wha- it’s the famous Ferrier necklace! It’s worth thousands!” protested Lestrade. Sherlock just sighed. “Any suspects?”

Lestrade gestured to the cluster of policemen standing in the garden, a small, mousy-looking girl crying hysterically in their midst. “The help, Lucy, was cleaning that part of the house at the time.”

“You wouldn’t have called me if it was that simple.” said Sherlock, staring long and hard at Lucy.

“Right. We searched every inch of her, as well as her possessions, but we can’t find the necklace anywhere. She couldn’t have disposed of it so quickly, it’s barely been an hour since the robbery.”

“Could she perhaps have given it to an accomplice?”

“Nobody’s seen her since the robbery occurred, except for Mrs Ferrier and the policemen.”

Sherlock frowned. “How did you find out about this? Did Mrs Ferrier call?”

“No, when Mrs Ferrier realized that the necklace was gone, she screamed bloody murder. That policeman - right there - his name’s Wilkins, he heard her and came running.”

“Arrest Wilkins and Lucy.” said Sherlock.

“Wha-”

“Search him, he has the necklace.”

“But-”

Sherlock sighed. “He was right _there_ when Mrs Ferrier screamed, what are the odds of that? Obviously, he’s in cahoots with Lucy. She stole the necklace and he took it from her when no one was looking.”

“Maybe he was just working this circuit. You know. Had his rounds here.” said Lestrade weakly.

Sherlock fixed him with an unblinking stare. “Idiots. The whole lot of you.” He paused. “Look at his shoes, Lestrade. They’re _muddy_. Posh neighbourhood like this, and it hasn’t rained in about a week. I didn’t see any signs of mud anywhere around. He was patrolling another part of town, someplace more down-market, and casually walked by here at the time he’d chosen with Lucy. Do you understand now, or shall I fix up a powerpoint presentation?”

Lestrade was silent for a while. “I like you a lot more when Dr Watson’s around.” he remarked. Sherlock silently agreed.

Wilkins broke down as soon as Lestrade confronted him, and was soon taken away. Sherlock accepted Mrs Ferrier’s tearful thanks and had barely settled into his cab when his phone rang. He sat up straight. “Molly? Why have you been avoiding me? I-”

Molly cut him off. “Sherlock, there’s been an accident. You need to come to St Bart’s right now.”

“Who is it?”

“Dr Watson and Rosie.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda a filler chapter. The action starts in the next one.

**2 HOURS AGO**

John straightened Rosie’s bag on his shoulder and set off down the stairs. He’d forgotten how much he missed living at Baker Street and running around solving crimes with Sherlock. Sure, Sherlock could be insufferable, but there was never a dull moment with him around. John had been helping out with the renovations at Baker Street and eventually ended up staying; the house he had shared with Mary was too big, too empty. Besides, being friends with Sherlock Holmes meant being able to drop everything and run out on an errand at a moment’s notice. It meant midnight stakeouts and pre-dawn chases through the city. It meant sleepless nights spent pondering over cases, or slumber rudely awakened by Sherlock thumping his way through 221B. Add a baby to the equation and life got even more complicated; if he needed to go off with Sherlock on a wild goose chase, it was just a lot more convenient to leave Rosie with Mrs Hudson.

John was both jealous and glad that so many people constantly clamoured for Rosie’s attention. Mrs Hudson thought her a delight. Molly begged to look after her whenever she was free from the mortuary, and Harry had asked to babysit her once or twice. John had promised his sister that if she remained clean for a few months, she could have Rosie to herself. Even Lestrade wanted to spend time with Rosie.

Whenever John saw Sherlock and Rosie together, he had to resist an urge to laugh. Sherlock treated her with extreme trepidation, as if afraid that she would dissolve into fragments of glass at any moment. He was always unsure about how to deal with her tantrums and soothe her, but she seemed to think him funny. Everytime he walked by, she held out her chubby little arms and if he picked her up, clutched on to him for dear life. When he was solving a case, he often muttered to her, and she would smile. If she saw him working with his chemicals at the kitchen table, lab-goggles on, she giggled gleefully. Everytime she smiled or laughed or clamoured to be held, John could almost see something melting in Sherlock’s eyes. It was at moments like these that something inexplicable would rise in John’s stomach - he wasn’t sure if it was grief for Mary or happiness for Sherlock - and he had to turn away and compose himself.

As John stepped out into the crisp London air, someone asked, “Cab, sir?” John nodded and loaded himself into the back of the black car. He quickly gave the cabbie directions to Molly’s house. As they wound through the busy streets of London, he frowned and looked around. Something seemed wrong. They weren’t on the path he always took to Molly’s. In fact, by now they were somewhere else entirely; a rather isolated stretch of road with a few trees on either side. He was about to ask the cabbie where they were going, when the car gave an almighty lurch and swerved sharply. He barely had time to shield Rosie with his body before the car crashed into a tree - and after that, he saw red.

* * *

 

The cab had barely drawn up at the gate to St. Bart’s, but Sherlock was already out of the car. He practically flew up the driveway and through the doors, down to the reception area, where he prepared himself to push his way to the front of the line. However, he didn’t need to, for Molly Hooper was already waiting for him. She looked tired and drawn, and as soon as she saw him, her face clouded over.

“I had the early shift,” she told him, leading him through the corridors. “I was just about to go home and take over Rosie’s babysitting duties for a bit, when I saw them both being wheeled in. Apparently the cab just kind of…swerved off the road and into a tree. John isn’t severely injured, but he’s still getting stitched up. He was really agitated, kept yelling and asking for Rosie, so they sedated him.”

“Rosie?” asked Sherlock.

“You can’t see her right now. She’s sustained a minor head injury, but…” she hesitated, “She’ll make it, but there might be a possibility of permanent motor damage. It’s too early to say.”

“When can I see them?” he demanded.

“You can’t see Rosie. Children are only allowed family visitors.” Molly held up a hand to silence him. “Yes, I know you’re family, but not legally. I can take you to see John in a few minutes, when the doctors are done with him.”

Sherlock sat down on one of the benches and put his palms over his eyes, pressing hard until stars popped in front of them. _Permanent motor damage. Stitched up._ He realized there was nothing to do but wait. No point wailing about it. When he opened his eyes and looked up, Molly was still standing there, eyes trained on his face. This was the most contact they’d had since Eurus’ little game. He’d called her every day and left at least a thousand texts, call me, call me, call me.

“Molly, I need to explain-”

“Forget it.” she said, “You told me it was for a case. I was just another one of your lab rats, then. No big deal.”

“Molly, lab rat - that’s exactly it. You weren’t the lab rat, I was. We were-”

She just sighed. “I’m sick of you, Sherlock. Don’t even try. I’m in love with a version of you which doesn’t exist and never did. I always thought you were this hero, with your deductions and your intellect, but you’re not. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, you wouldn’t be one.”

Sherlock just stared at her silently, completely at a loss for words. How was he supposed to calm her down? She wouldn’t let him tell her the cool logic of it. “You’ve got a new boyfriend.” he muttered instead.

She was caught off guard. “What?”

“You’re wearing a new locket. You wouldn’t wear it to the mortuary unless it was really special. The expense suggests boyfriend, not friend.”

She scoffed. “There you go again. It’s from my parents, since it was my birthday yesterday. Bet you didn’t even think I _had_ parents.” She fumed and turned away, gesturing to a door from which a doctor had just emerged. “You can see John Watson now.”

Sherlock bolted out of his seat, but stopped halfway. “Molly, I really am sorry. Just give me a chance to-”

Molly drew herself up to her full height. “Please don’t talk to me again, Sherlock Holmes. I’m done being used by you. Goodbye.” She turned on her heel and stormed off.

Sherlock wasn’t very happy, but he had more pressing issues to deal with. He opened the door and half-ran into the room, expecting to see John covered with bandages with tubes running out of him. Thankfully, John was sleeping peacefully, a bandage on his forehead and another on his hand. There were no weird tubes and monitors. Sherlock gave a sigh of relief and drew up a chair, and had barely settled into it when his phone rang.

“What, Lestrade?” he almost growled.

“There’s been a murder in East London.” Lestrade said, “I thought it might interest you.”

“Not. Now.” said Sherlock, through gritted teeth, “Can’t you solve anything without me for once? I’m busy.”

“But I was told to-” Sherlock had already hung up.

He stared at John’s sleeping figure, the swift rise and fall of his chest, the bandage on his forehead. Ever since he had started sleeping in the sitting room, Sherlock had realized that John was never a peaceful sleeper. He thrashed and mumbled and often awoke sweating. But right now, he slept a drugged sleep, and Sherlock was glad. He deserved a few hours of rest; besides, this gave Sherlock a chance to do something he probably wouldn’t have done if John was awake or furtively asleep. He ran his hand along John’s injured one, interlinking their fingers and sighing deeply. With his free hand, he lightly touched John’s hair, careful to steer clear of the bandage. He was rarely affectionate, but this was a rare occassion.

When he heard someone opening the door, he quickly snatched his hands away. Looking up, he saw Molly Hooper come in, dragging a chair behind her.

“It’s okay, Sherlock.” she said quietly. “You can continue.”

“It’s not-”

“I’m sorry about earlier.” she interrupted, “I was being melodramatic. I can’t hate on you for not being a hero. If there’s an explanation, I want to hear it.”

Sherlock decided that now was not the time to clear the air about his sexuality. _What would I even be denying, exactly?_ he thought. He cleared his throat and chose his words carefully. The Twisted Tale of Eurus Holmes was only known to a select few, and Molly wasn’t one of them.

“I was in a...situation. Your flat was rigged with explosives triggered to go off within 3 minutes if you didn’t say the-the thing that you said.”

Molly turned white as a sheet.

“Or at least, we thought it was.” Sherlock said quickly, “After everything was over, we found out that this gamemaker had been bluffing. Your flat was never rigged. But I swear, Molly, I thought I didn’t have a choice. It was either make a false confession of love or watch you explode.”

Surprisingly, she giggled. “You’re right, that doesn’t leave you with much of a choice.”

They were silent for a few seconds.

“So, John Watson. Are you going to tell him?”

“Tell him what?” Sherlock asked innocently, although he knew it was futile. As John had very eloquently put it, Molly had learnt to see through his bullshit long ago.

“That you’re hopelessly in love with him.” When she saw his poker face, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, Sherlock. It’s a little obvious, isn’t it? You almost got yourself killed just because he wasn’t talking to you. But we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to. Will you tell him about Rosie?”

Sherlock decided to ignore her first question. “Yes. Probably as soon as he asks me about her.”

She frowned. “Don’t you think you should spare him the pain? Let him get better-”

“And then spend him spiralling into hell again?” he completed. “No. I realized a long time ago that I can save John Watson, but I can’t protect him. Trouble finds him. Rather, I find trouble, and he runs headlong into it with me.”

“Well, I don’t think you both should worry too much anyway. Rosie’s an unusually strong baby. I wonder where she gets it from.”

“Probably Mary.” Sherlock remarked.

“That’s not what I meant, but never mind. So this - ‘gamemaker’ - is he, she, it the same person who blew up your flat?” Molly asked.

“Yes.”

“Who is it?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s too dangerous. The less you know, the better.”

“But you just said that you can’t protect people!” she protested.

“There’s a difference between not protecting people,” he commented, “And voluntarily putting them in danger.”

Molly frowned. “I suppose that’s true. I-I think I’ll head home now. You have another visitor.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, Mycroft was tapping on the window. “Should’ve pulled the curtains.” he muttered to himself, as his brother held the door open for Molly.

“I see you two are getting on like a house on fire.” Mycroft said, as he slipped into Molly’s vacant chair. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Very funny, Mycroft. Now, what brings you? I assume it isn’t sentiment for John Watson.”

“You wouldn’t be too happy with me if it was.” said Mycroft.

 _Hmph. Touche,_ Sherlock thought.

His brother smiled. “Now, the East London murder. You have to take the case.”

“Did Lestrade call you?”

“No, I called Lestrade. I told him to offer you a case every time it was even slightly bizarre. How long did it take you to solve the Ferrier robbery?”

Ah. Sherlock had known something was wrong with that; the police had been acting even stupider than usual. “Why would you do that?” asked Sherlock.

“To take your mind off things. It’s a better coping mechanism than drugs. Besides, the East London case is of utmost significance.”

“National significance?” asked Sherlock, but he had already tuned out of the conversation.

“No, personal significance.”

“The only person of any personal significance is lying on this bed right now.” Sherlock muttered under his breath, then silently cursed himself. He could tell that Mycroft had heard him. He remembered the day England had legalized same-sex marriage; the news flash had barely started when he received a text.

 _There you go, brother mine._  
_-MH_

“W-e-l-l, I’ll leave you two alone now.” Sherlock heard the smile in his voice, “But you should at least take a look at the crime scene tomorrow. It’s highly intriguing, I promise you.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’ll think about it.” Mycroft was clearly desperate for him to take the case. Normally, Sherlock would've argued more and left him dangling until Mycroft practically had to beg him to investigate, but he was too stressed about John and Rosie to bother.

“Good. I’ll have Lestrade text you the details.” So saying, Mycroft strolled out, but stopped midway and looked over his shoulder, “This wasn’t an accident.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “What?"

“Didn’t anyone tell you? They couldn’t find the cabbie.”

Sherlock frowned. “Then someone hired him to do this.” He clenched his fist. Moriarty was dead, Eurus was locked up...who would want to hurt John now?

“Something’s coming, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, softly, “I don’t know what it is, but it’s big.”


	3. Chapter 3

When John woke up, he instinctively reached out for Rosie, but his hand didn’t touch either her smooth skin or the cold wood of her crib. He looked up and saw Sherlock looming over him, a mixture of worry and relief evident on his face. He reached out and caught Sherlock’s hand, while Sherlock clutched his just as hard - as if he was the one drowning.

“Rosie.” John croaked, “Is she okay?”

“She’s safe, but there’s a very slight possibility of motor damage. They won’t let me see her because I’m not immediate family.” Sherlock replied.

John closed his eyes again, breathing deeply. He still felt woozy from the sedatives. Sherlock squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. Strangely enough, it felt perfectly natural that Sherlock should be at his side, holding his hand and comforting him. He had no idea what was going on in his head, but he knew that he would’ve been perfectly content to lie there, fingers intertwined with Sherlock’s, if he hadn’t been so worried about Rosie.

Eventually, a doctor came in and cleared his throat. Sherlock rose to leave, but the doctor smiled at him. “It’s alright, you can stay here while I examine your boyfriend."

“He’s not my boyfriend.” John said automatically, and then a stroke of inspiration suddenly hit him. “He’s my fiance.”

Sherlock gave him an odd look, but it only lasted for a split second, and he quickly caught on to what John was doing. “It’s set for next week.” he said, beaming at the doctor, “But we might have to postpone it...it all depends on little Rosie.” He pretended to sniffle, and John was sure that a significant part of it wasn’t fake.

The doctor sighed. “All right.” he mumbled, writing something on his notepad and giving it to Sherlock, “Take this pass.” Sherlock snatched it and ran out of the room.

The waiting was agony, every minute of it. John answered the doctor’s questions as well as he could while craning his neck to watch out for Sherlock and news of Rosie. The doctor told him that he should stay for the rest of the day, that they would release him in the evening. John just nodded along, barely listening. The doctor had just left when Sherlock’s soft footfalls were heard and he entered.

“She doesn’t look too bad.” he informed John, “Small bandage on her forehead, that’s it. She’s sleeping, but it’s natural, not drug-induced. Apparently your body absorbed most of the impact. They said there’ll be more news by the evening.”

John wasn’t too relieved. What if she was permanently impaired in some way? He should’ve paid closer attention to where he was going, stopped the cabbie while they were still in the busy parts of London…

“She’ll be fine.” Sherlock said softly. John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him intently.

“Maybe not.”

“Maybe.” Sherlock agreed, “But whatever it is, we can all pull through. Humans are built to withstand much more pain than they give themselves credit for.”

John closed his eyes again. His head throbbed painfully. “She’s all I have left of Mary.” he said, before slipping into deep slumber.

* * *

 

Sherlock spent the day alternating between Rosie and John’s rooms, seeing to it that they were fed and watered. Rosie slept for the most part. The few times that she threw a tantrum, Sherlock was there to pick her up, and she would almost instantly cease her crying. As soon as she fell asleep, he would run to John’s room. If John was asleep, Sherlock held his hand, not caring if anyone saw him. If he was awake, they talked about Sherlock’s case, the missing cabbie and Rosie’s condition. When John awoke, Sherlock would try to pull his hand away, but sometimes, he wasn’t fast enough. On these occasions, John didn’t try to disentangle his fingers. Sherlock put it down to the sedatives.

As the clock struck six, Sherlock tried to swallow the lump in his throat. On the cab ride to the hospital, he had thought about confessing his true emotions to John, but he couldn’t do it. Firstly, he didn’t know how to. Was he just supposed to say ‘I love you’ and leave it at that? Was he supposed to bring chocolates or roses or something? Secondly, if John didn’t feel the same way, he would probably move out. The last time that had happened, Sherlock had hallucinated, almost overdosed and put himself in firing range of a serial killer - on purpose.

“I’mgladyouaren’tdead.” he finally said.

John looked at him quizzically.

Sherlock cursed himself. “I’m glad you aren’t dead.” he repeated, more clearly this time.

John smiled. “Considering all the shenanigans we’ve gotten into, it would be a little disappointing if something as simple as a car crash killed me.”

Their conversation was cut short by Molly Hooper, who didn’t look the slightest bit unfazed to seem them holding hands. “Hello,” she said brightly, “My shift is about to start and I just thought I’d drop by and talk to the doctors. Rosie’s perfectly fine. The wound on her head could take a while to heal, but no lasting damage done. You can take her home with you.” John took his hand away and buried his face in his hands.

Sherlock suddenly realized that he hadn’t eaten anything for 22 hours.

* * *

John peered out of the window. It was already dark; the day sure had flown. Mrs Hudson was fussing over Rosie as she lay in her crib, kicking about. To his surprise, Sherlock was twisting and turning on the sofa, almost as restless as Rosie. “Sherlock, what on earth are you trying to do?”

“Ooh, he does that whenever you two have a little domestic.” Mrs Hudson commented. On receiving strange looks from both men, she muttered something about tea and went out.

“You’re sleeping in my room tonight.” Sherlock said.

“What? Why?”

“Because you just had an accident and your back clearly hurts from sleeping on the couch for so long. No, don’t ask me how I know. What you need is a good night’s sleep on a proper bed. I can sleep right here on the couch and look after Rosie tonight.”

“But your legs barely fit on the couch!” John protested, “You’ll have to fold yourself up like an origami napkin if you don’t want to fall off.”

Their eyes met in a silent struggle. _We both know what happened the last time we tried to share a bed,_ Sherlock’s eyes seemed to say. Although John still didn’t like the idea of making Sherlock camp on the sofa, he shrugged and nodded. After all, he had full faith in Sherlock’s abilities to look after Rosie, and he really could use a good night’s sleep. The drugged sleep in the hospital hadn’t quite cut it.

Sherlock shifted to the armchair, and John made his way to the fridge. He opened it, swore profusely, and slammed it shut.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he said through gritted teeth, “There’s a foot in the fridge. A human foot.”

The rustling of newspaper was the only answer he got.

“First eyes, then a head, then thumbs, and now a foot. Shall I expect an ear next? A lung, perhaps?” asked John.

“I had an inkling that putting an entire corpse in there might rattle you. Besides, these body parts never bothered you before.”

“Wha- yes, they did!” said John indignantly, “Besides, I don’t want some malicious bacteria species ruining Rosie’s milk. These chemicals must go, too.”

Sherlock almost giggled. “’Malicious bacteria species’? Seriously, what kind of a doctor are you?”

John continued to glare at him until he finally relented. “Fine. I’ll buy a mini-fridge and store my chemicals and body parts there.”

“No, Sherlock.” John said forcefully, “It’s all very well now, but what about when Rosie starts to walk and explore and open cabinets? I don’t want her growing up thinking that it’s perfectly normal to find heads and eyes lying around the house.”

“Normal’s boring.” Sherlock complained, “But if it really bothers Rosie that much, I’ll shift everything downstairs to Mrs Hudson’s fridge. There. Now she won’t mistake a human thumb for her rattle.”

“But you have to-” John stopped halfway through his sentence, surprised, “Wait, you’ll do it? You’re just going to...listen to me?”

Sherlock buried himself even deeper behind the newspaper. “I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Rosie.” he finally muttered. He peeked over the newspaper just in time to catch John’s smile.

* * *

The soft turning of the doorknob awoke Sherlock. He fidgeted around in his blanket, trying to sit up, but the wrappings were too tight. He eventually ended up rolling off the couch and fell to the ground with a muffled _thump_.

“Ah, the great Sherlock Holmes,” came his brother’s voice from above, “Full-time consulting detective and part-time sausage roll.”

Sherlock grunted as he disentangled himself from the blanket. “A very good morning to you too, Mycroft. I’m assuming Mrs Hudson let you in at the front door and you had a spare key made for this apartment some time ago.”

Mycroft inspected his fingernails, clearly amused. “You must forgive me, brother mine. Ever since John Watson moved out, you weren’t always very...trustworthy, to put it mildly. This was just a precaution, should you ever lock yourself in and have one of your little episodes.”

John emerged from the kitchen and offered Mycroft a cup of tea. “Yea, you were off your tits almost all the time, Sherlock. Although now that I’m here, Mycroft can get rid of those keys.”

“I take it that this is a permanent living arrangement, then.” Mycroft said. Sherlock and John ignored him.

Rosie’s trademark giggle broke the silence, and Mycroft peered at her, a mixture of curiosity and revulsion on his face. “Ah, you must be Rosamund Mary Watson. Pleased to meet you. Don’t let my brother’s eccentricity influence you too much.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

“Eurus has been unnaturally communicative lately.” Mycroft informed him, “She’s actually started speaking to a few of the nurses. For the most part, she has large spells of silence, but it’s a start.”

“That’s not all.”

Mycroft shot him a nasty look. “Yes, I wanted to remind you about the East London murder. I’ve made arrangements for you to visit the crime scene in -” he checked his watch - “an hour. It’s no use asking me why I’m so persistent about you taking this case, Sherlock, you’ll have to figure it out on your own.” He rose to leave. “Thank you for the tea.”

* * *

Barely an hour later, Sherlock and John stepped out of their cab in front of a small two-storeyed house. _Yardley Oliver_ , read the nameplate. Beyond the unkempt garden, yellow tape crisscrossed the front door. A giant red ‘5’ was painted on it in something that looked suspiciously like blood, but on further examination was revealed to be paint. They entered, Sherlock looking about suspiciously, and followed the passageway into a large sitting room. A man sat crying on a plush white sofa, while policemen milled about the room. Lestrade made his way over to Sherlock.

“Glad you could come.” he said, “Somebody broke into this house two nights ago and murdered the man’s son. I’ll let you hear the rest of it from him.”

Yardley looked over as they approached, drying his tears on his soaked sleeve. “Ah, Sherlock Holmes,” he croaked, “Pleased to meet you, sir. And you must be Dr Watson.”

John shook his hand. “Mr Oliver, we’re very sorry for your l-”

“Tell me everything from the beginning.” Sherlock cut in. John glared at him, but gave up and settled on the sofa next to him, ready to hear the story.

Yardley Oliver took a few moments to compose himself. “My wife Susan passed away 3 weeks ago.” he said, “Lung cancer. It was just James and I living here after that - until last night, that is.” He sniffled. “It must’ve been around 2 AM or so. I couldn’t sleep, and then I heard muffled noises from the room above, which is James’. I figured he was just being a teenager, you know, listening to heavy metal or something, but decided to go up and check on him anyway. I stepped out of my room - it’s that one, right there-” he pointed at a door leading off from the sitting room, “And was barely out when I saw a shape moving towards me. I scrambled for the lights, but as you can see, the switchboard is on the opposite wall. The shape was walking slowly, and I realized it was a woman holding a candle. She lifted the candle to her face, and then -”

John and Sherlock stared at him expectantly.

“Mr. Holmes, it was Susan, my wife.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

John frowned. “What, the dead one?”

Mr Oliver nodded. “Yes. She snuffed out the candle then. I was paralyzed with fear, but she just turned around and left - that too through the front door. She must’ve painted the 5. I think I fainted then. When I eventually came to my senses, I hurried upstairs to check on James. And then I found - I found -” He broke into renewed sobs.

Sherlock leaned forward. “What did you find? I need you to tell me exactly what you saw.”

“He was in bed, but I realized that his bedside lamp was broken. So I went to wake him up and then I noticed that his eyes were open, but he- he wasn’t breathing. I called the police then, and they said - they said - ” He broke down completely.

John awkwardly patted his shoulder. “There, there. It’s alright….” A policeman stepped forward and kindly led Mr Oliver to his bedroom. Lestrade motioned for John and Sherlock to follow him.

“Mycroft Holmes told me to leave the murder scene exactly as it was.” he informed them, as they climbed up the stairs, “The body’s still lying there, but you need to be quick. We have to remove it. It’s not good for the old man’s nerves.”

The stairs led to a small room - or a landing, rather - with two doors leading off on each side, one of which had yellow tape covering it. It was this one that John, Sherlock and Lestrade entered. The room was small, with a single bed pushed against one wall, a dresser next to it. A few pictures and posters adorned the faded walls, all of which Sherlock ignored as he made his way to the dead boy lying on the bed. He looked expectantly at John.

John stepped over and carefully examined the corpse. “Early teens, I’d say. Been dead for a day, yes...looks like asphyxiation. Oh.” He suddenly went very quiet. “Sherlock, look at this.”

“What? What is it?”

For a moment, John found himself distracted by the small scar on Sherlock’s lip, and a fresh wave of guilt hit him. Just how badly had he hurt Sherlock in Culverton Smith’s morgue? He snapped back to the present and showed Sherlock the boy’s throat. “Isn’t that how the Golem kills his victims?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly in recognition, and John knew that he was thinking about their brief encounter with the Golem. They’d come so close to catching him, but he got away at the last moment.

Lestrade shuddered, turned around and put a hand on his forehead. “My god.” he whispered, “The Golem’s back. Well, I’m heading downstairs to inform everyone else about this. Let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

When Lestrade left, Sherlock walked out of the room, heading for the door opposite. On opening it, they discovered that it was mostly a storeroom; there was a dusty old chest of drawers and a cupboard. However, just above a pile of boxes, there was a window. “So that’s how he got in.” Sherlock muttered.

John peered out. Sure enough, right below the window, a pipe led down to the backyard. “Well, what d’you reckon?” he asked Sherlock, “Why did the Golem do this?”

“Why would anyone want to murder a teenager?” Sherlock muttered. “John, you’re the doctor. Does he look like he had any history of drug abuse?”

“None of the tell-tale signs.” John said, and headed back to the dead boy’s room. Sherlock remained in the store-room, examining it for any clues he might have missed.

As John leant over the corpse again, someone thundered up the stairs, and the door to the room was flung open. There was an exclamation of surprise, and a strangely familiar female voice said, “Well. I didn’t think I’d find you here.”

John turned around to discover a very breathless Irene Adler.

He stared at her in disbelief. He’d known she was alive since Sherlock’s birthday, but to actually see her in the flesh...well, it brought back old memories, to say the least.

“Still alive, I see.” he said.

“Still gay, I see.” she retorted, “Oh, don’t bother denying it again. We’ll know the truth soon.” She smirked at him in her self-assured, mysterious way. John was about to ask her what she meant, but he was saved as Sherlock entered the room.

If he was surprised to see Irene, he didn’t show it. “Hello, Irene.” he said, “You’ve come in a hurry, but you’ve clearly still made an effort to dress. So you expected you’d see us here. ”

John could’ve been imagining it, but he could swear that he saw a soft blush color her cheeks. “Well, if it isn’t Mr Holmes.” she said, “Doing your deduction thing again, are you?”

“What are you doing here?” John cut in.

“I should ask you the same thing.” she said, “That’s my father downstairs. This is my house. In fact, this is the room in which I grew up.” A fresh set of howls and sobs interrupted them from downstairs, and a flash of pain flitted across her face. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to attend to my father.” She disappeared, heels click-clacking on the stairs.

“So…” John turned to Sherlock, who was staring at the place where Irene had stood. _Why is he doing that?_ John thought, irritated _. And why is it annoying me?_

“Where has she been all this while?” he asked Sherlock.

“No idea.” he said, “Help me look through the storeroom, will you? There might be something useful there.”

As they headed out of the room, a piercing alarm punctured the air. “Fire.” they both said automatically, and each looked at the other, eyes locking, ready to carry the other to safety if need be -

The alarm stopped as suddenly as it had started. They turned to see Irene watching them from the bottom of the stairs, smirking. “Amazing how fire exposes our priorities.” she mocked. Then she turned on her heel and left.

 

* * *

 

When John finally got back to the flat after his shift, Sherlock was putting Rosie to sleep. Sherlock had realized that talking to Rosie and taking care of her helped clear his head - but, well, he also just liked the attention she gave him. John’s eyes hovered over the scar on her forehead. “When I find that cabbie, I’m going to kill him.” he said.

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat as he remembered A Study In Pink, and the exact moment when he had realized that John had been the one who shot Jeff Hope. They’d barely just met, but John had killed a man for him, and Sherlock had realized that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to keep John Hamish Watson in his life.

“Haven’t you killed enough cabbies to last you a lifetime?” he asked.

“I’ve only killed one.” John retorted. He grabbed some food from the kitchen/chemistry lab and settled into the armchair opposite Sherlock. “Any ideas about this new case, then?”

“Seven, so far.” Sherlock said. He had been doing some thinking and come up with some weird theories, each crazier than the last. “Now, who do we know who’s apparently come back from the dead?”

“You.” John said immediately.

“Oh, that woman didn’t fake her death. No chance of her faking cancer; she was clearly too unwell to take care of the garden for some time before she died. Anyone else?”

“There was Moriarty. I mean, he _is_ dead, but his videos made us think he was alive.”

“Exactly.” said Sherlock, leaning back in his armchair, “The point of those videos was to intimidate. Distract. Create panic and confusion.”

“What does this have to do with the Oliver case?”

“His wife’s definitely dead, I did some digging.” Sherlock said.

“What kind of digging?” John asked.

“The point is,” Sherlock continued, ignoring him, “Someone pretended to be his dead wife. Remember, he only caught a glimpse of her, and that too in dim candlelight. Even if it was someone who moderately resembled her, his brain would’ve warped it around to suit what he wanted to see: his wife, alive again.” Sherlock hesitated. He wondered if this was too painful for John to think about, but John motioned for him to continue. “While this prankster was distracting him, the Golem was upstairs, murdering his son. Oliver then fainted, and by the time he came to, both the Golem and his wife were gone.”

“Alright, that makes sense.” John said, “But why murder his son in the first place?”

Sherlock laced his fingertips together; he was rather enjoying this case. “We’ll have to look into their family history.”

“What about that giant 5 on the door, then? It be a warning or a countdown of some sort. 5 days, weeks, months?”

“Absolutely no idea.” Sherlock said.

“Do you think this could have something to do with Irene?” John pressed, “I mean, she’s been on the run for all these years. How would her father even know where to reach her in case of an emergency like this? Why randomly turn up now?”

“Ah, now you’re asking the right questions. They weren’t her real mother and brother, by the way. Stepbrother, or maybe half-brother, obviously.”

“How do you even know that?” John asked, putting his fork down.

“The age difference, for one thing. She obviously just came back to London after a long time, that much was evident from her shoes, but she barely reacted when she saw his corpse. You saw her face; she was a little upset, no doubt, as you would be if you found a dead body in your old childhood room. But there was no sorrow there; no attachment, then, probably just met him for the first time. She’s been away from home a long time, long enough to change her entire identity from Oliver to Adler. I don’t know how her father got in touch with her, but she rushed to London as soon as she heard about the boy’s death. If she cares about her father so much, why not come right after his wife died?”

John nodded, meaning suddenly dawning on him. “You think she’s come for some other reason. She knew we were going to be investigating this, since it’s too bizarre to pass up.”

“Yes, and when she entered the house, she headed straight for her old room. Didn’t even take off her coat. She’s hiding something in that room, John, and as soon as she heard it was going to be crawling with detectives, she came back to get it.”

John frowned. "What’s she hiding? Why hide it in her childhood home and not, you know, deposit it in a bank or something?”

“She obviously doesn’t want anyone else to see it, not even bank officials.” Sherlock said rapidly. “The house is pretty old, probably has a few secret hiding places. She grew up there, so she would know about them. It’s most probably in the boy’s room - she rushed straight up to check on it.”

“Er, I know this is a crazy theory, but if it’s in the boy’s room, maybe he found out about it and reached out to her.” John said, “She hired the Golem to murder the boy. Doesn’t really explain the dead wife, though.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “I did think about it, but it doesn’t add up. Irene Adler is a lot of things, but she isn’t a cold-hearted killer.” He leaned back in his chair. “Before I jump to any conclusions, I need to find out where she’s been and what she’s been up to. I need to find whatever she’s hiding.”

“Well, we obviously can’t use the smoke alarm trick on her again.” John said. Sherlock’s eyes met his for a moment, but flitted away almost instantly.

They both sat in silence for a while. “Mycroft was right.” Sherlock finally said, “This is an intriguing case. The Golem and his accomplice didn’t even leave anything substantial for me to draw deductions from. Whoever we’re dealing with - oh, they’re smart.”

“I think I have a plan.” John said quietly, “But you might not like it.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Possibly.”

“Then let’s hear it.”

“I get into the house on the pretext of comforting the old man.” John said, “I’ll get him drunk, sneak away and snoop around a little. Meanwhile, _you_ will keep Irene out of the way and find out what she’s been up to. We’ll kill two birds with one stone.”

“How will I keep Irene out of the way?”

“By taking her out on a date, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: The Golem (Oscar Dzundza) is an assassin hired by Moriarty in 'The Great Game'. He kills his victims by squeezing the life out of them (literally).


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was horror-struck. “John, no. No. You don’t understand how much I _cannot_ do that.”

“Why not? You practically proposed to Janine so that you could move forward with the Magnussen case.”

“Irene’s different.” Sherlock protested.

Despite John’s best efforts, his heart sank. He knew that Sherlock had always seen something special in Irene Adler. “Good different or bad different?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

Sherlock shot him a strange look. “Irene’s smart enough to figure out what I’m doing.”

“Well, don’t make it a date, then. Just take her out for a meal on the pretext of, er, returning her cameraphone.”

“But Mycroft cleared all the information, remember? It’s an empty shell now.”

“She doesn’t have to know that.” John retorted.

“Why can’t _you_ take her out?”

“She hates me. It’s mutual, actually.” John said, “Look, will you just do it?”

“John, why are you pushing this?” Sherlock asked, raising his voice slightly.

“Because, Sherlock, it’s the only plan we have! For god’s sake, stop being such a big baby.” John could feel his own temper rising. “It’s one date. I’ve told you this before and I’ll say it again: do something while there’s still a chance, because that chance doesn’t last forever.”

From the odd look on Sherlock’s face, John instantly knew that he had crossed some invisible line. Sherlock went into his bedroom and slammed the door, only to return two minutes later with a pillow and a blanket. He avoided John’s eyes as he made his bed on the sofa and folded himself onto it, his back to John.

“I’ll sleep on it.” was all he said.

John sighed. “You’ll sleep on it better in your own bed. I can take the sofa."

There was neither sound nor movement from the mound on the sofa, but John could almost feel the hostility radiating from it. He watched Sherlock for a while, smiling slightly at the way his curly hair jutted out at one end of the blanket. As Sherlock shifted and fidgeted, he winced slightly, and John’s smile melted off. He knew exactly why Sherlock was wincing, and guilt stabbed every inch of his heart.

John didn’t know how to apologize for what he’d done to Sherlock after Mary died. _He’s done so much for me, and how did I repay him? By shutting him out. By blaming him for something that was never his fault. By beating him to a pulp. By abandoning him when he needed me. I owe him much more than an apology. I owe him my life._

Finally, he got up, turned off the lights, and with one last glance at Rosie, retreated to Sherlock’s bedroom.

* * *

John couldn’t sleep.

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?” said the little voice inside his head.

And indeed, it was. John could feel it again - the butterflies, the skipped heartbeats, the little barbs of jealousy; in short, all the cliches associated with a crush. Except this was much bigger than a crush, and he knew it, even if he refused to accept it. He vividly remembered every moment, every touch, every gaze he had ever shared with Sherlock. He vividly remembered the nights he had spent trying to convince himself that he was not completely and utterly in love with Sherlock. He vividly remembered the pain of knowing that Sherlock Holmes could never, ever fall for him - before Sherlock actually fell to his death, that is.

After the Fall, John had tried to move on - what choice did he have? He’d succeeded, but only for a while, it seemed. With Mary’s death and Irene Adler’s return, he could feel the walls crumbling. Every emotion he had ever felt before Sherlock’s death and shut out after was trickling back in. It was mostly jealousy which had made him realize just how deeply he loved Sherlock. But he wasn’t ready for this; not so soon after Mary.

Sometimes, he still had trouble believing that Sherlock was alive. He’d wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, after replaying Sherlock’s jump in his dreams. His barely conscious mind would convince him that Sherlock still lay limp and decaying in that graveyard. He remembered what he had said to Sherlock’s gravestone: _I was so alone, and I owe you so much_. It was doubly hard because those words had been intended to go with a soft caress of Sherlock’s cheek, a squeeze of his hand, a soft kiss to his temple; not spoken to a cold gravestone. Whenever he had nightmares like this, he invariably ended up in Sherlock’s room, watching him sleep as his heartbeat slowed down. He would keep repeating _you're alive_. Sometimes, the mere sight of Sherlock wasn’t enough; he wanted to touch him, his face, his torso, his pulse, to make sure that it was really Sherlock and not some cheap trick.

As John inspected the bandage on his hand, he thought back to his time in the hospital. He wasn’t sure how much was real and how much he had dreamt, but he was almost convinced that he’d woken up to Sherlock holding his hand. _Why on earth would Sherlock do that?_ he thought. But at the same time, he knew that he couldn’t possibly have imagined the jolt of electricity that shot through him every time he woke up to feel Sherlock’s fingers intertwined with his.

* * *

Over breakfast the next morning, Sherlock showed John the text he had sent to Irene.

 _I have something that belongs to you. Let’s have dinner._  
_-SH_

John nodded his approval, and Sherlock meekly set down his phone. He’d sulked all night long before he finally managed to convince himself to send the text. He knew it was for the case, but he absolutely hated the idea of going out on a fake date with Irene - especially since John thought he was ‘interested’ in her. As if he could ever have eyes for anyone except John Watson.

He sighed and picked up the newspaper, scouring it for any news about the Yardley Oliver case. Surprisingly, there was none, even in the local papers. If the matter was so hush-hush, how had Irene heard about it?

“Pass me the salt, will you?” he asked John, not lowering his newspaper.

“It’s right in front of you.” John retorted, but handed him the shaker anyway. Sherlock caught his hand.

“Your bandage needs changing.” he blurted out.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does.”

“I’m a doctor!” John protested.

Sherlock snorted. “Oh, please. You didn’t even notice that I was dangerously close to overdosing until Mrs Hudson packed me in the boot and shoved me under your nose.” he said, pulling down the first-aid kit from its shelf.

“That’s true. I’m sorry.” John said.

Sherlock froze, bandages dangling in midair. “What?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I should’ve noticed.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said awkwardly, “Right. That’s - that’s all right.”

He settled into the chair next to John and took his hand, trying to hide the tremor in his own fingers. When he had changed the bandage, he looked up to find John’s eyes fixed on him. His heart skipped a beat as he realized that he was still holding John’s hand. John was making no attempt to withdraw it; nor was he blinking as he stared steadfastly at Sherlock. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock found himself mesmerized by John’s eyes, by the soft planes of his face, by his slightly messy hair. _If something called ‘the right moment’ exists,_ Sherlock thought _, then this is it._

“John,” he said softly, “There’s something I need -”

He was cut short by Mrs Hudson pattering into the room. He instantly dropped John’s hand and turned away, trying to hide his disappointment.

“Now, see to it that you boys clean up after yourselves.” she said, “Remember, I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper." As she disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock quickly got up and started clearing away the first-aid kit.

“So, what do you need?” John prompted.

But the moment had passed, so Sherlock cast around for an excuse. “Help.” he finally said, “You’ll need to coach me about what to do on this date thing.”

“Oh.” John sounded slightly crestfallen. “Well, it shouldn’t be too hard. She liked you even when you were a massive dick to her. Being nice now will only give you away.”

“That’s true enough.”

“I’m heading to work now.” John rose. “If you’re not going out, can you watch Rosie? Molly’s busy and we can’t always leave her with Mrs Hudson.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock watched him disappear through the main door, then made his way upstairs to their flat. What a wasted opportunity. Still, he was rather touched by the fact that John finally trusted him enough to leave him alone with Rosie. He entered the living room and got to work, printing out photos of the crime scene and sticking them all over the wall. It had been a while since he’d been handed such an interesting case.

He turned around to see that Rosie was awake and was gearing up for a tantrum, all sniffles and whines. She couldn’t _possibly_ be hungry; she had drained a bottle of milk just before breakfast. He peered at her, wondering what her problem was. When she saw him, the whining immediately stopped, and she held out her arms. He sighed and picked her up, then returned to the wall and surveyed his handiwork.

_The giant red 5 on the front door._

_The layout of the living room._

_The boy’s dead body, the marks on his throat evident._

_The small window in the storeroom._

Sherlock knew that he was at a dead end. He couldn’t move forward with the case until he found out more about the boy’s history, and he couldn’t do that until he talked to Irene and John talked to her father. Rosie raised her head and peered at the wall, too, pouting.

His phone softly moaned, and he unlocked it to reveal Irene’s text.

_Finally hungry, are you?_

  
And another.

 _So am I. Lucky you._  
_-IA_

* * *

“John, you have to help me!”

John had barely started ascending the staircase when he heard Sherlock calling him. He sighed. He’d spent a long, arduous day dealing with the most obnoxious patients, and the last thing he needed was Sherlock asking him to take his phone out of the coat pocket because he was too lazy to reach it (not that he minded fishing around in Sherlock’s coat, as long as Sherlock was wearing it). As the door to 221B swung open, however, he realized exactly why Sherlock needed his help.

“What on earth…?”

Rosie was sitting on the floor, clutching Sherlock’s skull. Sherlock was trying to snatch his ‘friend’ away, but she wouldn’t let go.

“I couldn’t find her teddy bear, and she wouldn’t take any of her other toys.” he said desperately.

John just shook his head hopelessly. “So you gave her a human skull.”

“It was either that or my gun. Besides, she likes it.”

John stared at Rosie as she ran her hands along the skull, giggling. “Well, what’d you expect? Her mother was an assassin, her father has an abnormal addiction to danger and her godfather solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. Oh, let her keep it. At least she’ll be busy for a while.”

Sherlock watched him as he pressed his palms over his eyes. “Long day?”

“Very.” he said, looking up at Sherlock. He was forcibly reminded of their moment at the breakfast table that morning. His apology had been on the tip of his lips, but he knew that once he started, he would never stop. “So, what time are you meeting Irene?”

“Around 7, which means you need to get cracking.” Sherlock said, suddenly businesslike. “Hang around her house for a while - I saw some hedges which would suit the purpose perfectly - and make sure she leaves. You mustn’t be seen. We can’t afford to arouse her suspicions. When she’s gone, knock on the door and invite yourself in for a little chat.”

“Okay. I’ll figure out how to slip away from Mr Oliver once I’m inside. Do you think I should check James’ room?”

“No, she’ll almost definitely have removed whatever she’s hiding. Can’t risk leaving it there with the police crawling all over the place. But I’ve had my homeless network watching the house since we left it, and she hasn’t gone out. A number of policemen have been in and out, of course, but it’s highly unlikely she’ll trust someone else to hide something she’s so paranoid about. Whatever we’re looking for is still in the house.”

“That means it’s either in her luggage or on her person.” John remarked.

“Yes. You check her luggage, I’ll check her person. I mean...” Sherlock trailed off awkwardly, “That’s not what I meant, um…”

John just shook his head. “Nevermind. When she leaves, drop me a text, all right? I’d like to be out of there before she comes back.”

Sherlock nodded. “One last thing, John.” He looked up at John, all puppy-eyed, and John could feel his heartbeat speeding up. “What on earth am I supposed to wear?”


	6. Chapter 6

“Black, black, and more black.” John said, rifling through Sherlock’s clothes in disbelief.

Sherlock pulled out a purple shirt.

“No, not that one. It’s…” John trailed off. What was the best, most platonic way to say _it looks so good on you that I don’t want anyone else to see you in it?_ He cleared his throat. “Don’t you have something a little brighter?”

Sherlock stepped forward, arm accidentally brushing against John’s, sending tingles up it. He fumbled around in the wardrobe and the back slid away.

“Your wardrobe has a false back?” asked John, surprised.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Did you think I let you have the bigger room out of the goodness of my heart?” He pulled out a bright red wig. “John, people are rarely so selfless. I needed a place to keep all my disguises.” He put the wig on and Rosie squirmed with delight. She had abandoned the skull and was now snuggling comfortably in John’s arms.

“Yea, nope, just go with black.” John said, “You look good in anything you wear, anyway.” _Oops. Did I say that out loud?_ “Where are you meeting her?” he asked quickly.

Sherlock threw the wig back inside and closed his wardrobe. “Angelo’s.” he said.

“Angelo’s. Wait. As in...Angelo’s where we had our first stake-out?”

“That one. It’s perfect if we don’t want to be overheard. I’m surprised you remember it.”

 _How could I forget it?_ John thought. _It’s where everything began._ He couldn’t help feeling slightly chafed that Sherlock was taking Irene there. He’d always somehow thought of it as _their_ place _. It doesn’t mean anything,_ he scolded himself. _He probably just doesn’t know any other good spots. How many dates does the man go on?_ He turned around and headed out of the room, leaving Sherlock to change.

“John.”

John paused in the doorway.

“There is nothing I would rather do right now than find the damn cabbie who hurt you and Rosie.” Sherlock said, “But there are no substantial leads. I’ve tried the taxi company and searched the site of the accident for clues, but I found nothing. It’s like he never existed.”

The knowledge that Sherlock shared his murderous feelings for the cabbie warmed John’s heart. “If someone wanted to kill me, there are easier ways to do it.” he said, “What was it really about, then?”

Sherlock turned back to his wardrobe. “Sending a message.”

* * *

John cursed as he tore a thorn out of his shirt for the millionth time. The hedge he was hiding inside was prickly, to say the least. “Damn Sherlock.” he muttered to himself, “He gets to sit in a warm, cozy restaurant while I freeze or possibly bleed to death in this hedge.”

The nasty voice inside his head snickered. _Well, it was your idea to send him off on a date with a beautiful woman._ As if on cue, the main door burst open and Irene strolled out. John could see that she had put a lot of effort into her appearance, and he cursed again. If his crazy idea actually resulted in Sherlock falling for Irene…wait, that was the point, wasn’t it? Sherlock deserved love, and he deserved to be happy. Even if falling in love with someone else was what it took to make him smile, so be it. _I can deal with a bit of heartache for his sake_ , John thought.

As Irene drove away, he scrambled out of the hedge, trying to straighten his clothes and shake the leaves out of his hair. He strolled up to the main door and rang the doorbell, and a red-eyed Mr Oliver opened it. In the living room behind him, John could see a bottle and a half-empty glass resting on the table. _Excellent_.

“Mr Watson. Is everything alright?”

“It’s Dr Watson, actually. Um, yea, you seemed pretty shaken up yesterday, so I just thought I’d check in. If you need anybody to talk to, or…”

Mr Oliver hesitated, but his sorrow seemed to win out. “Why don’t you come in?”

* * *

As Sherlock turned the corner, he was surprised to see Lestrade walking by the entrance of Angelo’s.

“Hello, George.” Sherlock said, “What brings you to this part of town?”

“It’s Greg.” he said indignantly, “Well, I’ve just been talking to a few of the Oliver boy’s teachers and friends. Apparently he was everyone’s favourite. Star student, theatre junkie, go-to friend. They’re all devastated. I didn’t find anybody who could possibly dislike him, let alone hate him enough to murder him.” He peered at Sherlock curiously. “Are you on a date?”

“Well-”

“Where’s Dr Watson?” he asked eagerly.

Sherlock stared at him. “I’m not on a date with him. I mean, it isn’t even a date at all. Just meeting an old friend.”

“Oh.” Lestrade looked rather put out, “How is John doing? With, you know, Mary and all that?”

“He has his good days and his bad days. He’s been doing okay recently. As I’ve often said, work is the best antidote to misery.”

Lestrade nodded. He picked at the pavement with his foot, hesitating slightly. “Look, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…” He took a deep breath. “You need to look after him. He might do something...desperate.”

Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean?”

Lestrade stood in silence for a short while, gathering his thoughts. “When you died, Sherlock, it was a hard time for all of us, but nobody took it harder than John. In the first few weeks, he was practically a ghost. It was like a part of him had died with you. He blamed himself, you know. Felt that he had let you down. Nobody could do anything to help him. Remembering him that way still gives me the chills.” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “The night after your funeral, in the middle of the night, he called me. He didn’t say anything, but I could hear the wind and that eerie silence and I knew that he was at the graveyard. I drove over immediately, and I found him standing next to your grave. He - he was holding a gun to his forehead, Sherlock, and his finger was on the trigger.”

Sherlock froze.

“He wasn’t even crying, but that just made everything worse. He had this cold, dead look in his eyes, and all he said was _I let him die_ and _he’s gone_. Over and over and over again. If it was torture enough looking at his suffering, I couldn’t even begin to imagine what he must be going through. Part of me was tempted to let him pull the trigger, to let him put himself out of his misery. But I came to my senses, of course. I realized that if I let him die, then I’d be failing you. I wrestled the gun from him and drove him to Baker Street, and from that day on, I made Mrs Hudson mix sleeping pills with his water.”

Sherlock just stared at him, speechless for a few moments. “Why didn’t either of you tell me?”

“I don’t think John even remembers it, and I just didn’t have the heart to tell you.” Lestrade scrutinized Sherlock carefully. “Look, I know you apparently don’t have a heart, but I can see it when it breaks for John Watson.”

The two men stood in silence for a minute.

“Well, I think I’ve depressed you enough.” Lestrade turned away and began walking down the street, but turned around when Sherlock called after him.

“Lestrade. Thank you.”

Lestrade smiled and nodded. For once, he understood all the unspoken thoughts that Sherlock was throwing his way.

_Thank you for taking care of him when I couldn’t._

* * *

Mr Oliver drained his glass and wiped his eyes for the millionth time. “It’s devilish hard, you know.” he croaked out, “You think you have forever with someone, and then - poof. They’re gone.”

John nodded sympathetically, feeling slightly impatient. He’d already been talking to Mr Oliver for half an hour, but the man showed no signs of relenting. He kept topping up Mr Oliver’s glass in the hope that he would finally fall asleep, but he had only just started slurring.

“Do you have a wife, Dr Watson?”

For the first time that night, John took a deep swig from his untouched glass. “I did.” he said quietly.

“Are you divorced?”

“No. She died.” John said, voice trembling slightly. “It’s just like you said. Here one day, gone the next.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. Do you have any children, then?”

“Yea, a baby daughter.”

“How would you feel if she died, too?” Mr Oliver asked. His tears had started rolling again.

John swallowed. He wasn’t even prepared to think about losing Rosie. “Like my wife had died all over again, and the world was ending.”

Mr Oliver nodded and choked out, “Like there was nothing left worth living for.”

John was about to agree, but something stopped him. He thought of Baker Street, with its comforting smells and homely mess. Of the case files that littered the cabinets and the bullet holes that covered the walls. Of his laptop, open on the littered kitchen table, his blog counter blinking. Of lazy winter afternoons spent drinking tea and arguing. Of the detective standing by the window, playing some mournful melody on his violin, lost in thought.

As long as Sherlock Holmes was alive, John would always have something worth living for.

“No.” he said, “There’s always something.” Yardley looked up, and John patted his shoulder. “Your wife and son would’ve wanted you to keep living. They wouldn’t want you to give up.”

Mr Oliver was silent for a while, contemplating John’s words. “I suppose you’re right.” he finally said, “Besides, I do have Charlotte.”

“Who’s that?”

“My daughter by my first wife. Brought Charlie up all by myself, I did. Her mother walked out before the poor baby could even sit up.” He held his glass out for a refill. “Charlie was always rather...restless. Once she left for college, she never looked back. I didn’t mind much, to be frank. You give a child wings, don’t be surprised when they start flapping them. She always checked in with me a few times a year. I’m just sorry she never really got to know Susan and James.”

Something clicked in John’s brain. “Did she come back for Susan’s funeral?”

“Oh, no. Told me she was caught up in some business deal abroad. She came as soon as she heard about James, though. It’s the first time she’s been home in years.”

The two men sat in silence for a while, John constantly refilling Oliver’s glass. Finally, he was convinced that Oliver was intoxicated enough. “Er, do you mind if I use the loo?”

“Not at all.” Oliver gestured vaguely in the direction of his bedroom.

John was pleased to see that the spare bedroom, where Irene was no doubt staying, was right next to it. He entered quickly and shut the door behind him. He noticed a bed, a dresser, a closet, and a big suitcase. _If I were Irene, where would I hide something?_ he mused. As if on cue, his phone buzzed.

_Check the lingerie drawer. Actually, I probably don’t need to remind you to do that._   
_-SH_

“Oh, you’re a bad man.” John muttered. He threw open the closet doors and pulled a random drawer open, mentally apologizing to Mary. He dug around, trying to get the job over with. To his surprise, his fingers touched something hard and papery, and he pulled it out. It was a nondescript brown file, but when he saw what was inside, his eyes widened. On the front page, one word printed in dark black ink glared at him.

**SHERRINFORD**

* * *

 

As Irene Adler and Sherlock entered the restaurant, Angelo himself stepped forward to greet them. “Ah, Sherlock! How nice to see you again!” he beamed, “Your usual table, I suppose?”

“Yes, thank you, Angelo.”

Angelo led them to the table by the biggest window, smile fading slightly as he noticed Irene. _He definitely thinks that John is my boyfriend. If only,_ Sherlock thought. Angelo leaned towards Sherlock and whispered, “Anything you want, anything at all. It’s all on the house, of course.” Sherlock smiled in acknowledgment, and Angelo bustled away to get the menus.

As Irene settled into a seat, her back to the window, Sherlock’s heart gave a pang. That was right where John had been sitting when he’d asked Sherlock if he had a boyfriend, that stupid little smile on his face. _I consider myself married to my work,_ Sherlock had said. Boy, how he regretted that now…

Angelo handed them their menus and left. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile when he noticed that there was no mention of a candle or a date.

“So, Sherlock Holmes.” Irene said, when they had ordered their food. She smiled demurely at him, and he didn’t return it. “What’s this really about?”

“Oh, simply two friends having dinner.” Sherlock said, “Just like old times.”

“I do hope it’s not like old times.” Irene said, “In old times, your actions got me kicked out of the country.”

“No, yours did.”

“I would still be running my little business if it weren’t for you. Still, you saved my life, so I suppose we’re even.”

Sherlock scrutinized her. _Obviously spent some time abroad. Doesn’t stay in the same country for too long. Her latest stint was in France._

She smiled at him. “Ah, you’re deducing. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything you could possibly want to know. After all -” she lightly bumped her foot against his leg “- we have all the time in the world.”


	7. Chapter 7

John quickly whipped out his phone. There was no time to stare; he snapped a photo of the front page. He turned the page to reveal a picture of a vaguely familiar woman, but before he could register anything of note, he heard footsteps outside the room. The file was far too big to smuggle out; he quickly clicked another photo, returned the file to its hiding place and shut the closet, moving towards the door just in time. Yardley Oliver opened it and looked at him suspiciously.

“Sorry that took so long.” John said.

“Er, not a problem. I do hate to turn you out like this, but I’m feeling a little drowsy and would prefer locking up the house securely before I turn in.”

“Yes, of course.” John said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was getting.”

Mr Oliver ushered him to the door. “Thank you so much, really. Talking to someone who’s experienced a similar loss did help me. By the way, how’s Sherlock Holmes getting on with the case?”

On the doorstep, John turned around and smiled at him. “He’s working on it right now. Good night.”

John hailed a cab and set off on the journey back home, mind buzzing. Who was Charlotte? Why was there a Sherrinford file in Irene Adler’s luggage? Why had she gone to so much trouble to hide it? If only Mr Oliver had stayed in the living room for a few more seconds, John could’ve uncovered so much…

He entered 221B, lost in thought, and his foot was on the first step when he heard Mrs Hudson shriek from the kitchen. He entered it to find her standing next to the fridge, looking aghast.

“Oh, John, Sherlock’s up to it again!” she said, “There’s a foot in my fridge.”

“Erm, that’s my fault. I wouldn’t let him keep it in ours. Bad for Rosie, you know.”

“Yes, of course. Well, won’t you meet Mrs Adams? Bertha, this is Doctor Watson.”

John nodded at the frail old woman sitting at the kitchen table. Bertha smiled back at him, but her smile vanished almost instantly, and she went back to staring broodingly at the kitchen table. Her fingers nervously drummed on the wood, and John didn’t need a medical degree to deduce that she was an addict.   
“I didn’t know that you had company, Martha.” she finally said.

“Oh, no, I’m just leaving.” John said. He fetched Rosie from Mrs Hudson’s bedroom and made his way upstairs, ready to sit up in wait of Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock was _not_ having a good time. If he was determined to get answers, Irene was equally resolute not to give any. He’d spent the last hour trying to steer their conversation into dangerous waters, but she kept cutting him off with snarky comments. They were halfway through dessert by the time he managed to make any headway.

“Where did you go after Karachi?” he asked.

“Oh, just here and there. Moriarty’s connections kept me safe, even after his death.” She laid her fork down for a moment and stared at Sherlock. “I really did think you were dead, too. Shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

“And yet you knew I was alive long before the press reported it. How?”

“When Moriarty’s web started unravelling, I realized there was only one person who could possibly be behind it.” She let her hand brush Sherlock’s slightly, and he didn’t pull away. “Then, of course, I also realized that you wouldn’t stop until his entire system - and hence my protection - came crashing down. So I fled. I’ve spent the last few years hopping from country to country. You should see how good my slogans sound in Spanish.”

“What brought you back to England?”

Irene smiled mockingly. “Now, now, I can’t tell you everything. Where’s the fun in that?”

They sat in silence for a while, Irene picking at her food, Sherlock studying her closely. She was too well guarded; he couldn’t deduce _anything_. He’d have to try talking.

“Must be sentiment.” he said, “That’s what brought you back. Sympathy for your father.”

Irene’s face softened slightly. “He’s the only real family I’ve ever had.”

_Definitely loves the old man,_ Sherlock thought, _but then why abandon him for all these years? To protect him, obviously. Didn’t I do the same with John?_

“I think it really did break him.” she said, “First his wife, and now the dreadful business with James. But you wouldn’t understand that.”

“Wouldn’t understand what?” Sherlock asked. He was painfully aware of the fact that Irene had somehow slid closer to him, and had an inkling that she had done it unintentionally.

“What it is to love. It’s just a chemical defect to you.”

“Is it?” he asked softly.

He held Irene’s gaze for what felt like an eternity, trying to gauge the emotions flitting across her face. _Curiousity. Confusion. Arrogance. Hope?_ His phone buzzed, and she instantly looked away, her emotional walls back up. It was too late, though. Sherlock had definitely seen her pupils dilate.

He pulled out his phone.

_I’m home. Got lots to tell. Be careful around her._

He couldn’t stop one corner of his mouth from lifting into a grin. _My blogger has obviously made himself useful this once,_ he thought. He thought about what John had said earlier that evening - _you look good in anything you wear_ \- and couldn’t help smiling even more. Mentally scolding himself for being so stupidly sentimental, he looked up from his phone, aware that Irene was saying something.

“I said it’s late and I should go home. It probably isn’t safe to leave father alone for too long.” she repeated, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, of course.” He shoved his phone back inside and followed her into the street, waving his thanks to Angelo. They stepped out into the cold London air.

“You said you had something of mine.” Irene said.

“Ah, yes.” Sherlock pulled out her camera-phone. As soon as she saw it, her eyes widened, and she stood up a little straighter. “I have your lifeline.”

“I bet you cleared all the useful information.” Irene commented. As she slipped her hand into Sherlock’s and slid the phone out of his grasp, he let his fingers curl around her wrist, and a satisfied smile crossed his face.

They’d both found exactly what they were looking for.

* * *

“You don’t even want the stuffed turtle? Okay.”

John had no idea what to do. Rosie had been throwing a fit for half an hour now, and nothing would shut her up. He’d tried everything - milk, soothers, all her toys, funny stories, but nothing worked. He’d even tried singing, but that just made her scream louder. He desperately glanced around the room, and his gaze settled on the skull.

“Well, it’s worth a try.” he muttered to himself. He handed her the skull, and she stopped crying almost instantly.

The door sprang open, and Sherlock walked in, tearing off his coat and muffler. “What did you find?” he asked abruptly, pausing for a moment to smile at Rosie.

“You might want to sit down.” John said. Sherlock shot him a look.

“Fine. A brown file with ‘Sherrinford’ printed on the first page.”

Over the years, John had learnt that very few things could shake Sherlock, but this certainly did. Sherlock collapsed in his armchair and leaned back, eyes closed, fingertips joined.

“What else?”

“This picture on the second page.”

John and Sherlock huddled over the phone, their heads close together. John could feel Sherlock’s hair tickling his face, and he didn’t mind. Sherlock smelt like a combination of tea, dust and another familiar smell that he couldn’t quite place. Sherlock looked up, blue eyes flashing thoughtfully, and John had to resist the urge to lean in and brush a stray curl off his face. _Control yourself, John. He just came back from a date. That’s probably why his hair is messy in the first place._

“Doesn’t she look like Irene Adler?” John asked, breaking eye contact. “I mean, she’s chubbier, has blonde hair, but if you look closely, it’s the same woman. Also, Oliver told me that he had a daughter named Charlotte. Her mother walked out when she was a baby, and Charlotte rarely came home after college. Kept in touch with him, though.”

“What else did the file contain?”

“I didn’t have enough time to look through the rest of it. What about you? What did you find?”

Sherlock ignored him, leaning back and closing his eyes again.

“Sherlock? How was the date?”

No answer. John tried again. “What are you thinking?”

Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh. “Nothing, at the moment. Your voice is interfering with my brainwaves in more than one way."

“Is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?”

Sherlock opened one eye and cocked his eyebrow, surveying John carefully. “Both.” he said softly. John’s heart skipped a beat.

“I’ll be up late thinking, so you may as well take the bedroom.” Sherlock continued, “Don’t try to speak to me before tomorrow or I might throw something at you. No, you can leave Rosie here.”

So saying, he got up and took out his violin, no doubt preparing himself for a night of contemplation. “My dear Watson,” he said, face breaking into an excited grin, “The game is on.”

* * *

“You didn’t sleep, did you?” John asked Sherlock at the breakfast table.

“No, of course not. Sleep is for the weak.”

“Are you at least going to eat something?”

“No. Digestion takes away the energy which could otherwise be utilised by my brain.”

“Well, you must’ve deduced some stuff yourself when you were out with Irene. Are you going to tell me about what happened with her?”

“No. You might want to ask your boss for the day off tomorrow. We’re going to take a little day-trip.”

“Any point in me asking where we’re going?”

“None.”

* * *

It was already late evening by the time Mycroft arrived at 221B Baker Street. He straightened the knocker and greeted Mrs Hudson, then headed up the stairs. He couldn’t help but admire the homeliness of the place, but he preferred the cool classiness of his own house. At least there was no sentiment and attachment clouding it. He opened the door to find Sherlock standing by the cot, tucking Rosie in. _Well, there’s a sight I thought I’d never see,_ Mycroft thought.

“You called, brother mine?”

“Do have a seat, Mycroft. I’m sorry you had to go to the trouble of coming to Baker Street, but you told me never to come to the office if I wanted to talk about anything...sensitive.”

Mycroft’s demeanour immediately changed. He understood exactly what Sherlock wanted to talk to him about.

“She’s the same as she was a few days ago. Talking to the nurses a little, playing music, taking her medication.”

“Yes, and I need to visit her.” Sherlock said, settling into the armchair opposite his brother, “And I need to take John Watson and The Woman with me.”

Mycroft smiled. He was rather glad that Sherlock had finally visited the crime scene. It was frankly quite perplexing, and the fact that it involved Irene Adler had only complicated it more.

“Should I also buy you three a tourist hat each?” he asked. “Sherlock, it isn’t a zoo. I can’t just get tickets and send you waltzing in.”

“John found a Sherrinford file hidden in Miss Adler’s luggage, but he couldn’t go through it properly. All he saw was a photo of someone who greatly resembled her.”

Mycroft frowned. “You can’t be serious. If Irene Adler was in any way involved with Sherrinford -”

“-you’d know about it, yes. I need you to search the databases for any connection between her and Sherrinford, or anyone under the name of Charlotte Oliver.”

“That was her real identity, wasn’t it? We did thorough research on her a few years ago. I’ll have the file sent over by tonight.”

“Along with the visitor passes for Sherrinford.”

“I understand you wanting to take Irene Adler with you, but why Doctor Watson? Surely he would like to stay as far away as possible.”

Sherlock hesitated, and Mycroft realized what was happening. Despite being cold and devoid of most human emotions (except for an intense love for his family), Mycroft could somehow understand what Sherlock felt for John. It rather hurt to know that his little brother wanted something and he couldn’t help him get it. Besides, he had his trepidations about what would happen if Sherlock started feeling too deeply. He could never forget the aftermath of Redbeard...

“I see. It’s _sentiment_.” Mycroft finally said, “He’s family, and you want him to start forgiving Eurus.”

Rosie started whimpering, and Sherlock got up to cradle her in his arms. Mycroft could sense that they both felt equally uncomfortable discussing this, but he went on.

“Sherlock, you can’t fill a Redbeard-shaped hole with a Rosie or a John.” He hesitated before suggesting an idea he’d already floated a thousand times. “We really should talk to Victor’s parents, you know.”

“Will you or will you not get us access to Sherrinford?” Sherlock asked, not turning around.

Mycroft sighed. _I’ve got a long evening ahead._


	8. Chapter 8

John entered 221B to find Mycroft seated in his armchair, looking as bored as ever. He dumped his shopping on the kitchen table and carefully took Rosie from Sherlock.

“I’ll send you the necessary papers by tonight.” Mycroft was saying, “The helicopter will meet you at the usual place. I really must get going now. A tempting evening of absolute inactivity awaits me.” He nodded at John and headed out, straightening a pile of books as he went.

“Sherlock. We’re going to Sherrinford tomorrow, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Should’ve known you weren’t exactly planning a beach trip.” John said, smirking slightly as he laid Rosie back in her cot.

“Sherrinford is a beach.”

“Anyone I should say goodbye to?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic. We’ll be completely safe. I really doubt Harry would miss you if you vanished for a day.”

“You remember my sister?” John asked, a little astonished.

“You remember mine.”

“Yea, she’s a little hard to forget.”

Sherlock laughed. “Have you got any theories?”

“What, you’re asking me? You’ll just snub me and say that I’m wrong.”

“I won’t. It helps to have a fresh opinion.”

“Oh, all right.” John settled into his armchair. “Charlotte Oliver was incarcerated in Sherrinford a long time ago, but she got out. She wanted to clear away all traces of her past life, so she somehow stole the file and changed her name to Irene Adler. That’s my theory.”

“Not bad.” Sherlock admitted, “But as always, Watson, you ignore the possible in favour of the probable. Your limited human vision is clouded, whereas I view the affair with crystal clarity.”

“Knew it.” John said under his breath. “What’s your theory, then?”

“Can’t tell you until I compound it. To do that, I need to take the Woman to Sherrinford. We’ll have the element of surprise on our side.”

“How do you know she’ll agree to go off into the unknown with you? Have you even asked her out on a second date?”

“No, but I took her pulse.”

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t sleep.

The only way his theory would help the case would be if someone at Sherrinford had a bone to pick with Irene. Even then, why would this someone murder her stepbrother, when she clearly didn’t care about him? Who would go to such lengths to psychologically scar Yardley Oliver? All of Sherlock’s background research had revealed that the man had no enemies. And yet, such an intricately planned crime certainly couldn’t be a random one. Sherlock hated the feeling of grasping at straws, but he realized he was doing exactly that.

He slid off the couch and started preparing a cup of tea. He had somehow convinced John to take the bed for another night, but he knew it wouldn’t last, and he would eventually get forced back into his own room. He wondered if he should ask John to share with him, but he knew John would refuse, especially after what had happened last time…

The night that they got back from their first visit to Sherrinford, John had forced Sherlock to spend the night at his house. Since 221B was in ruins and Mycroft was spending the night in the hospital on Lestrade’s insistence, Sherlock was in no position to refuse. Both John and Sherlock were too worn out to sleep on the cramped couch, so they’d ended up settling on far edges of the bed. However, dawn found them curled up in the same blanket, a little too close for comfort. Sherlock had no qualms - it had kept his nightmares at bay - but John sprang out of bed and muttered something about ‘checking on Rosie’. Neither of them mentioned it after that, and Sherlock was convinced that John had forgotten all about it.

As Sherlock headed towards his violin case, he was distracted by a muffled sob from his bedroom. He frowned. Rosie was sleeping peacefully in a cot near the couch. Did that mean…?

He softly pushed open the door and entered his bedroom. In the semi-darkness, he could just about make out a lump on the bed. “John?” he asked softly.

“I’m fine.” came the muffled reply, but John’s voice was hoarse with pain. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if he should leave John alone, but realized that he’d been doing that all too often lately. He softly padded to the bed.

“I’m the world’s best consulting detective, John. You can’t fool me.” he said. He reached out to touch John’s shoulder, and John jumped.

“Christ, Sherlock, you’re freezing! Get inside the blanket.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“Oh, for god’s sake. I won’t have you freeze to death just for the sake of my sexuality. Just get in, alright?”

Sherlock slid into the blanket, trying not to sigh with relief as his sore muscles hit the soft mattress. He was glad for the warmth radiating off John as they lay there, John staring up at the ceiling, Sherlock on his side, facing him. He finally broke the silence. “Is it Mary?”

“Yes.” John said hoarsely, “Talking to Oliver yesterday...but it’s not just Mary. It’s you, too.”

Sherlock was about to ask him what he meant, but decided it was better to keep his mouth shut for once and let John take things at his own pace.

“This may sound like an insult to her memory, but if I’m honest with myself, then what I’m going through right now is nothing compared to the aftermath of your fall. Nothing. In a way, your death was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because I found Mary. A curse, because I lost you.”

“There was a funeral, you know. We kept it small and personal. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft. A veiled woman who I think was Irene Adler. A handful of your homeless network. I was one of the pallbearers. The coffin was empty, apparently, but it was still one of the heaviest things I’ve ever carried.”

“For weeks after that, the only places I left Baker Street for were the graveyard, the therapist’s, and work. I’d go out for a walk sometimes, but I invariably ended up in front of St. Bart’s, replaying your fall in my mind. Wondering what I could’ve done to stop it. Staring at the pavement like I expected you to pop out of the granite. I barely ate and almost never slept. In fact, I think Mrs Hudson took to drugging me after a while.”

Sherlock remembered Lestrade’s words. _From that day on, I made Mrs Hudson mix sleeping pills with his water._

“That was even worse, because if I slept, I dreamt about you. I dreamt that you were alive and we were solving some stupid case together, and I’d always wake up right before you told me the solution. Then I would have to deal with the echoing emptiness of the flat. People say that misery dulls everything - what was that phrase? Ah, ‘tinges it with grey’. It was the opposite for me. Everything was too bright and too loud. I remember thinking, _how can the world still turn? Sherlock Holmes is dead._ ”

“Eventually, I moved out of Baker Street. I started going out more, getting in touch with old friends, a few meaningless dates here and there. But nothing ever stuck. No-one ever stayed. They all treated me like I was made of china, but nobody wanted to be around when the china broke. I couldn’t even bring myself to care about them. The only person I really cared about was dead. But then I met Mary.”

“It wasn’t like I met her and turned into a happy hobbit right off the bat. I was never completely okay until you came back. But when we started going out, the colours dulled a little. Food became somewhat edible. There were times when I almost wasn’t sad. The best thing about Mary? She didn’t make me hide my grief. She made me face it. I’ve lost count of how many dates I ruined because something or the other set me thinking about you.”

There was a long silence. For once, Sherlock was at a complete loss for words. When he finally spoke, he had to keep hard to keep his voice even.

“Did I ever tell you what really happened on that rooftop?”

John shook his head.

“Moriarty threatened to kill Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and you if I didn’t jump. There were guns trained on you, ready to go off unless Moriarty’s men saw me fall. After that, there were so many times when I wanted to reach out to you, but it was never safe enough. I worried that you might say something indiscreet, let the cat out of the bag. I was scared that Moriarty’s men might be lurking around, and if word of my deception reached them, you’d be their prime target. Everyone had to think I was dead. I had to dismantle every strand of his web before I could come back without endangering you. Forgive me, John Watson. I had no choice.”

John shifted a little closer to him, and it was a long time before he spoke.

“Of course I forgive you, Sherlock. I mean, you’re a git and all that, but everything else about you makes up for it. I know this is childish, but I still have trouble believing you’re around. Still can’t walk by St. Bart’s too often. Still wake up in a cold sweat, a vision of your blood-streaked face burnt into my retina. Still have to - “ John’s voice trembled a little “-check that you’re breathing.”

“John. Look at me.”

John turned on his side to face Sherlock, and Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat. John was trying to put on his best I’m a soldier face, but Sherlock knew him well enough to see through it. He had definitely never imagined that his death had such a profound effect on John. He slowly took John’s hand and put it on his chest, right over his heart.

“There.” Sherlock said softly, “Fully functioning, you see?”

John smiled slightly and closed his eyes, letting his hand stay where it was. “If you ever try anything like that fall again, Sherlock Holmes,” he mumbled, “I swear, I will kill you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sherlock said.

He was getting a little worried that John would notice his elevated heart rate, but he could also see that John was starting to doze off. Not wanting to disturb him, he lay perfectly still, still holding John’s hand to his chest. Long after John’s peaceful snores had filled the room, Sherlock lay there, mulling over his words. He could’ve stayed with John for an eternity, but he could hear Rosie sniffling from the sitting room, so he carefully disentangled himself.

When he bent over Rosie’s cot, she reached out and wiped away his tears.

* * *

Sherlock and John stood on the tarmac outside a helicopter, collars turned up against the wind. The tension between them was so palpable Sherlock could’ve cut it with a knife. After the emotional outbursts of the previous night, neither could look the other in the eye. When John finally spoke, it was a welcome reprieve from the awkward silence they’d shared all morning.

“So. We’re off to Azkaban.”

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

“Azkaban, Sherlock. The prison...wait a minute. You haven’t read or seen Harry Potter?”

Sherlock shook his head, John stared at him in disbelief, and they lapsed into awkward silence once again.

“Thank you.” John finally said.

Sherlock turned to look at him, finally making eye contact. “For what?”

“For last night. It would’ve been a bad night if you hadn’t been around.”

Sherlock managed a small smile. So John didn’t regret anything he had said, and he wasn’t going to ignore it either. “That’s what friends do, isn’t it? Comfort and console each other. I’ve always wondered about the co-dependency of human relationships - ”

John cut him off. “Yea, all right, you twat. You have to take your bedroom back now. I’m not a world-famous detective, but I can still tell that the couch isn’t really suiting you.”

Sherlock knew that there was no arguing this time. He let out an exasperated huff. “Fine.”

A car pulled up, and Irene Adler stepped out, a hint of curiosity on her face. “I hope I’m not third wheeling.” she said, “Any idea where we’re going?”

John smiled at her, and Sherlock glimpsed at least a hint of evil in his eyes.

“It’s a surprise.”

* * *

The intercom crackled with static.

“Miss Holmes, you’re going to have visitors today.”

Eurus smiled to herself. Sherlock, obviously; he would bring John Watson. If everything had gone to plan, Charlotte - whoops, Irene - would be with him as well. She took the violin from its hatch and lovingly cleaned the bow. Did Mycroft really think that a few Christmas treats could make up for years of incarceration? Oh, how she wanted to drive this very violin through his skull. Not that she ever got the chance; Mycroft never visited her, except when their parents forced him to.

She drifted into one of her sadder, less active moods. Hours later, she was cheered by the sight of her brother emerging from the lift. As John Watson stepped out from behind him, her eyes lingered over the bandage on his hand and the light scar on his forehead.

_Excellent._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It’s been 2 seasons and I’m still not over the Reichenbach Fall T_T This is me trying to give myself closure.  
> Till next Wednesday.


	9. Chapter 9

The sea was unnaturally calm, disturbed only by a few ripples. Sherlock tugged his violin case closer, keeping a wary eye on Irene, always looking away if she turned to look at him. It was imperative that he not miss a single expression or thought of hers. When the first glimpse of the fortress appeared on the horizon, she visibly started, and a flash of horror flitted across her face. A moment later, her placid mask was back in place, but a subtle agitation still remained. The closer they got to Sherrinford, the stonier her face became, and her hands clenched even tighter in her lap.

When they landed, Sherlock hopped out onto the sand. As he helped Irene out, he let his fingers hover over her wrist. _Pulse irregular, not elevated. Not love; fear._ They made their way through the complex - slowly, for there were more than a few security checks - and he could see her struggling to maintain her composure. As they got closer to Eurus’ cell, he realized that John wasn’t too happy to be back in Sherrinford either. John caught his eye and smiled reassuringly, but dropped it as soon as he looked away.

The doors of the elevator softly clicked open, and as they stepped out into the solitary cell, Sherlock quickly checked that the glass was still in place. It was a habit he’d picked up since his first meeting with Eurus. Irene’s face was as impassive as ever, but her lack of expression and the fact that she was staring fixedly at a point somewhere above Eurus spoke volumes. Her composure was cracking.

“Hello, Eurus.” said Sherlock.

Eurus was sitting on her bed, fiddling with her violin. She looked up as they entered and smiled slightly. “Doctor Watson, you seem so much better. Of course, the last time that I saw you, you were at the bottom of a well.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, the blood drained out of John’s face, and a flash of pure terror flitted across it. He quickly recovered and stood up straighter, chin high and jaw set. However, he couldn’t hide the slight tremor in his lip or the panic in his eyes - not from Sherlock, at least. Sherlock could tell that something about that well bothered John more than any other near-death experience they’d been in, but there was no way to find out what it was.

Sherlock turned back to Eurus. “Eurus.” he said, his voice steely. “That’s enough.”

Her smile vanished, and she cocked her head, now inspecting Irene. She picked up the violin and began to play a mournful piece, eyes never leaving Irene. Sherlock recognized the music instantly. It was the song he’d composed back when he first met Irene; the one he’d played to Eurus when she told him, “Play you.”

He glanced at Irene; her eyes were closed. Whoops, that was one more deduction than he had been expecting…

He leant over and whispered in John’s ear. “I’ve got what I need. Take her to the Governor’s old office, it’ll be open and empty. I’ll meet you there in a while.”

John nodded and turned to leave, obviously still troubled by Eurus’ words. Impulsively, Sherlock reached out and squeezed his hand. “Soldiers, remember?”

John squeezed back. “Soldiers.”

As John and Irene stepped into the elevator, Sherlock took out his violin and joined Eurus in her melody.

* * *

John Watson was not a coward.

He had endured war, injury and tragic loss, but there was one thing which set the battlefield apart from Sherrinford - there, he was in control. He could fight or flee, kill or die, it was ultimately up to him. Here in Sherrinford, he had been at Eurus’ mercy; a pawn in her stupid games. She knew she could manipulate them into doing what she wanted, and she used this knowledge to her advantage. He avoided thinking about the Governor, the cells, the Garrideb brothers, Sherlock’s love confession, but mostly, he steered clear of the well.

John had spent the entire helicopter ride trying not to think about what would happen if it malfunctioned. He didn’t mind crashing into Sherrinford, but what if they fell into the water? He clutched the railing and glanced at the waves, then turned away, trying not to think. It wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do to think about that; not here, not now, not _ever_. It had to stay buried deep inside, so that he could forget about it.

_The foam swirls around you. The water’s over you, under you, beside you, inside you. There’s no air and no escape..._

John shook his head and opened his eyes, grabbing onto the railing to steady himself again. One wrong move and he’d either smash to bits on the rocks or get swept away by the ocean. He turned to where Irene was standing, head bent, gripping the railing equally hard. She hadn’t spoken since they’d boarded the helicopter.

“You found the file.” she said quietly, “I knew I should’ve taken it with me and left London, but I couldn’t resist staying. I hid it in the one place where I thought nobody respectable would look.” She looked up to face him, eyes blazing. “Once again, I underestimated you two. Oh, don’t play dumb. Of course I saw you hiding in the hedge that day.”

“What’s your connection with this place?” John asked forcefully.

She ignored him.

“If you care about your father at all, answer me. It could help us solve the murder. Why were you at Sherrinford?”

“It has nothing to do with the case.” she said abruptly.

They both stared daggers at each other and then looked away. There was a long bout of silence. “Why did you stay in London if you were so desperate to hide the file?” John finally asked.

“Why do _you_ stay?"

“You stayed for Sherlock, didn’t you?”

Some of Irene’s old demeanour seemed to be coming back to her. She smirked at him. “You jealous?”

He turned away, and they stood in silence until Sherlock came back from Eurus’ cell.

* * *

When John woke up, it was midnight.

They had come back from Sherrinford just in time for dinner, but Sherlock had refused food and just sat around the apartment, lost in thought. Eventually, John had given up on trying to talk to him and gone to sleep. He’d left Sherlock staring at the fireplace, and when he awoke, Sherlock still hadn’t moved. He slid off the couch and sat down on the floor next to him.

“Sherlock. What is it?”

"I know why Irene Adler was at Sherrinford, but it doesn’t link up with the murder. I can’t find a connection.”

“Maybe there isn’t one."

“That’s not a possibility I’m willing to consider yet."

They sat in silence, staring at the fire, until John finally spoke. “You’re thinking about her right now, aren’t you?”

“No, you are. I wish you’d stop harping on about her. Romantic entanglement with the Woman, even if either of us desired it, would ultimately culminate in complete disaster. I don’t love her and I never have. Surely you know me well enough to see that by now.”

“You did save her life.”

“Yes.” Sherlock said softly, still staring at the fire, “But you saved mine.”

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against John’s shoulder. For a moment, John was completely taken aback, but he let his own head rest lightly on top of Sherlock’s. There was something infinitely comforting about the fact that every time Sherlock breathed, John could feel the slight movement of his chest beside him. Sherlock was clearly in a slightly emotional mood, and as that didn’t happen very often, John closed his eyes, savouring the moment while it lasted.

“If you must know, she fascinates me.” Sherlock said after a while.

“How so?”

“In a way, Irene Adler represents everything that I try to hide. I repress and abhor emotions, but she strives off of them. Emotions, you understand, not sentiment. I control mine, but her? Oh, she rides them like a wave. That’s the difference, you see. What happened with Victor -“ Sherlock broke off abruptly.

John slowly untangled his arm from under Sherlock’s head and put it around his shoulders, easily settling his head on Sherlock’s again. He gave Sherlock’s arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Sherlock took a deep breath and continued.

“What happened with Victor taught me to ignore sentiment and bury it, to not let it distract me from the cool logic that I hold above all else. What happened to the Woman - she chose to face it. She built herself up from the very thing that broke her.”

“What happened to her?”

“Not now, John. There is a time and place for everything, and this is not it.”

As John shifted his cheek to rest more comfortably on Sherlock’s head, he silently agreed. The dying fire hissed and crackled, but both men ignored it. John saw no reason to pay attention to anything except how easily Sherlock fit into him and the way the firelight softly illuminated his face - things he had thought about a thousand times before, but never tired of. They both stayed there, leaning against an armchair and into each other, for a long time after the fire had gone out.

* * *

“You’ve got a client, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson called from downstairs.

Sherlock put down the violin and settled into his armchair. It had already been three days since his visit to Sherrinford, and he had been awaiting this particular client for quite some time. He hadn’t made any effort to contact Irene Adler; she would come to him of her own accord. Sure enough, the door opened and she walked in, as calm and poised as ever.

“Is Dr Watson home?” she asked.

“No.”

She took a deep breath. “If you think it’ll help with the case, I’m ready to tell you the truth about Sherrinford. How much do you know?”

 _Ah, no beating around the bush this time,_ Sherlock thought. _But she’s clearly come in a hurry; seeing her father’s sorrow probably spurred her into sudden action..._

“You knew your way around Sherrinford. You tried to hide it, but it’s ingrained in your memory from all the times you’ve revisited it in your nightmares. You and Eurus Holmes recognized each other. The patients don’t get around much, and they definitely don’t interact with each other. You tried to make yourself inconspicuous so that the staff wouldn’t notice you. Conclusion: you were a nurse at Sherrinford.”

“Yes.” she said, “But then I decided to leave. I changed my identity. When I got in touch with Moriarty, he managed to get my file out. All traces of Charlotte Oliver were deleted - hard copies, soft copies, everything.”

“So you knew about Eurus this whole time?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Why, didn’t you?”

He ignored her. “You went to no end of trouble to destroy Charlotte Oliver. You have nightmares about Sherrinford. Something ghastly happened to you there, something so traumatising that you went to great lengths to obliterate every trace of who you were then. Your particular line of work is significant as well; a psychiatric nurse doesn’t just drop everything to become a dominatrix.”

“Eurus told me she’d had sex.” he continued, more softly now. “Specifically, she said, _one of the nurses got careless._ When I asked her about consent, she wouldn’t give me a straight answer. Was it you?”

Irene was silent for a moment, but finally looked up and met his eyes. “Yes.” she said, her voice low and controlled. “It was me. And it wasn’t consensual.”

Sherlock remembered what Eurus had said about the nurse: _people are so breakable._ Some strange feeling welled up inside him, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. Sympathy. Something he normally never felt for clients, but this...this was about his own sister.

“I’m sorry.” he said quietly.

Irene looked away, clearly surprised. “The great Sherlock Holmes, _apologizing_? There isn’t any need. It was a long time ago. It took me a while to come to terms with it, but eventually, I got tired of being scared. It was time to face my fears. I had to leave Sherrinford, though. The things I’ve seen...” She closed her eyes and shuddered slightly. “Once you go there, you never really leave. I left on the pretext of a family emergency and never went back. For years, I lived in fear of them finding me. Fortunately, I met Moriarty, and he provided against it.”

“I never told my father about Sherrinford, nor what happened after. He doesn’t even know who Irene Adler is. He doesn’t ask many questions, but I did leave him with a number he could call me on no matter where I was. I told him enough for him to glean that it was dangerous for him to give it to anyone. There is no one at Sherrinford who could possibly want to hurt James or father. No one.”

They both sat in silence for a while, staring out of the window. Irene finally spoke. “Well, this entire ordeal has taught me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“To never go off into the unknown with you.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that Sherlock putting his head on John’s shoulder would require quite a bit of contortion, thanks to their height difference. I like to think he was kind of half-lying down and John was sitting straight. 
> 
> Till next Wednesday!


	10. Chapter 10

It was a wild, tempestuous day, and the wind furiously rattled the windows of 221B Baker Street. Outside, only a few raincoat-clad figures battled through the rain, and even cars were minimal. Sherlock stood by the window and watched the downpour. _Good day for the criminals,_ he thought, _Nature itself will clean away the evidence of most crimes, if Scotland Yard doesn’t do it first._

Deep down, he rather hoped he would get called out on some bizarre errand. It had been a somewhat dull week since their visit to Sherrinford. Clients were boring, John was busy with work, Rosie slept a lot, and Sherlock still couldn’t make head or tail of Yardley Oliver’s case. He had grudgingly admitted that John was right; there was no connection between Irene Adler and James’ murder. It was simply a coincidence. However, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about the whole thing. Hadn’t he said it himself? _The universe is rarely so lazy._

Irene Adler had dropped by a few times to talk about the case. For some reason, whenever she visited, she made sure that John wasn’t around. Sherlock had almost come to regard her as an acquaintance now. Neither of them talked about Eurus or Sherrinford, but he would often get a bad taste in his mouth, and an overwhelming need to apologize.

“Sherlock. Listen to me.”

Sherlock turned around to find John staring at him, frowning slightly.

“You have got to stop blaming yourself for what Eurus did.” John said.

 _Uncanny,_ thought Sherlock, _almost like he read my mind._ “I’m at least partially the reason why she’s in Sherrinford in the first place.”

“No, you aren’t. You’ve seen what she can do. Nothing justifies cold-blooded murder. She killed a boy when she was just a child herself.”

“I haven’t forgiven her for that, but she was _lonely_. If I hadn’t neglected her so much - ”

“\- she would still have turned out the same. What happened to her is not your fault. It’s in her biology. There are other ways to deal with loneliness, and murder is not one of them.” John stood up and joined him at the window. “I never thought I’d say this to you, but you’re letting emotion cloud your judgement. Eurus is dangerous. Even Mycroft sees it. Why can’t you?”

“I don’t deny the fact that she’s dangerous. But with proper care - “

“There’s no fixing her, Sherlock. She’s twisted beyond measure. You can play your duets and baby her, but that’s not going to change the fact that if you remove that glass, bad things are going to happen. She’s bottling up years of isolation and resentment, and she’s too clever.”

Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye. He thought back to their meeting with Eurus, to the way John had reacted when she brought up the well…

“You really hate her.”

“I don’t. I just see her for what she really is.”

“That well…” he hesitated, “Why has it traumatized you to this extent? Surely you’ve seen worse.”

John laughed bitterly. “Oh, it runs much deeper than a stupid well.”

John’s face was an inscrutable mask, and Sherlock got the distinct feeling that he was hiding some deep, dark secret. He would ask, but he could see that John needed some time to sort through whatever he was feeling. After all, John hadn’t forced him to open up about Irene Adler in front of the fireplace that night. This brought him back the original problem: how badly he wanted to cuddle with John again, to settle his head in the crook of John’s neck and fall asleep like that.

Sherlock wondered if John knew how much courage it had taken just to put his head on his shoulder that night. He was still terrified that he might go too far and John would cut himself off, and he couldn’t let that happen. He just _couldn’t_. John was too precious to lose. He was the only one who Sherlock laughed with, rather than at. He put up with all of Sherlock’s tantrums and eccentricity, and somehow still loved him for it. He even made lazy days at Baker Street bearable.

To his frustration, his phone rang. He pulled it out and strode away from John. “Yes, Lestrade?”

“There’s been another break-in.”

* * *

“Why is it yellow?” Sherlock muttered.

John and Sherlock were standing outside the flat, waiting for someone to open the door, which had a giant yellow 4 painted on it. The small nameplate on the door said Upton Adams.

John shrugged. “I dunno, traffic lights?”

“As always, Watson, your intellect never fails to amaze me.”

Lestrade opened the door and led them into the dingy house, filling them in on the details as he did so. “No murder or robbery this time. Just a break-in. Upton’s sister Bertha died a week ago. Last night, he heard noises from the living room, so he came out to check. It turned out to be Bertha. He scrambled to his bedroom, locked the door from the inside and when he came out, she was gone.”

“Another visit from beyond the gravestones, I see.” John said, “How did she get in?”

“He leaves the living room window open when he sleeps.” Lestrade said, “She climbed in. It’s only the ground floor.”

Sherlock whipped out his magnifying lens and began examining every inch of the living room. “How did she die? Ah, nevermind. Drug overdose. Think there’s still some cocaine lying around?”

“Sherlock, behave. Sorry, Lestrade, go on.”

“Yes, drug overdose. In case you were wondering, Upton’s staying at a hotel for now. He’s a nervous wreck. There’s no chance of you talking to him.”

“Hm. He evidently called a priest before calling the police, so I highly doubt he’ll have anything substantial to tell us.”

Meanwhile, John had drifted over to the photos hanging on the wall. There was one in particular which caught his eye. It was clearly more recent than the rest; the colours were sharp and the corners only slightly ragged. It was a photo of a sullen old woman, and John had the distinct feeling that they’d met.

“This woman, I’ve seen her before.” he said.

“To be fair, John, you’ve seen a lot of women.” Sherlock said, “Although this one looks to be a little out of your age range.”

“That’s the dead sister.” Lestrade said, “Try to remember where you’ve seen her.”

Sherlock grabbed both sides of John’s head and spun him around, the way he always did when he was trying to get John to remember something. But all John could think about was how he irresistibly close Sherlock’s face was, and how warm his hands were -

“Nope, I can’t remember.” he said.

“Well, Lestrade, I’ve got what I wanted.” Sherlock said. As they left the flat and hailed a cab, he muttered, “I’ve been a fool, an utter fool. I was focusing on James Oliver’s murder, when I should’ve been focusing on the break-in.”

“You’re sure they’re connected?”

“Obviously. There’s been no media coverage about the break-in at Oliver’s, so this definitely isn’t some sort of fad. No, the same person is behind them. I need to find a connection between the two crimes. John, try to remember where you’ve seen Bertha Adams. It could help.”

“I’ll try.” John said, as they got into the cab. “Right, how did you know about the drug overdose?”

Sherlock ignored him.

“Come on.” John prompted, playing on Sherlock’s obvious weakness for praise, “I know you like this part. Show off for me, detective.”

As he had expected, a slight blush spread across Sherlock’s cheeks. “The knives were all stowed well out of reach. This is mostly done for the benefit of two categories of people: infants and the habitually inebriated. The state of the carpet showed that her brother often had to drag her to her room, presumably when she was too intoxicated to move.”

“So she could be a drunkard or a drug addict.”

“There were bottles of liquor kept in plain sight in a glass cabinet. Tell me, if you were trying to wean Harry off of the alcohol, would you keep it where she could see it?”

“No. Drug addict, then. How did you know about the priest?”

“Random drops of ‘holy’ water and bunches of garlic everywhere. I suppose that was obvious?”

John just smiled and shook his head. Dozens of crimes, and Sherlock’s skills still awed him.

“Brilliant.” he muttered to himself.

* * *

No connection.

Sherlock had spent the last three days delving deep into the Adams siblings’ background, but he couldn’t find much information. There was definitely nothing to link them with Yardley Oliver and his family. The only similarity between the crimes was the fact that both Bertha and Susan had died recently, so that their death was still fresh in their families’ minds. He had tried to think of a motive to explain the break-in, but there was none. Nothing had been stolen, nobody murdered, no lasting harm done - except to Upton’s psychology. He would have to assume terrorizing him to be the prime motive, then.

After giving his initial statement to the police, Adams had specifically said that he didn’t want to be contacted unless absolutely necessary, and then barricaded himself in his hotel room. Try as he might, Sherlock couldn’t find a chance to talk to him. The giant yellow 4 on the door irked him, too. It was obviously a countdown for the number of crimes, but he had no idea where the next one would take place.

“No action is ever random.” he said to John’s empty chair. “Why paint it yellow and not red, then? If yellow, then why _particularly_ yellow?” His head snapped up as the door opened and John stumbled in, coat slung over his back. He staggered to the sofa, took off his shoes, and lay down.

“You came back earlier than I deduced you would.” Sherlock said, amused, “And just as drunk, if not more.”

“Git.” John muttered sleepily, and promptly rolled off the sofa. He hit the floor with a thump and lay there, shifting his head to rest it more comfortably.

“All right, John, come on.” he said softly, “Let’s get you sorted out. You’re in no state to sleep on the sofa tonight.”

He leant down and helped John up, slinging John’s arm around his shoulders. He half-carried, half-dragged him to his bedroom and gently dumped him on the bed.

“Where’s Rosie?” John asked.

“Spending the night with Molly. Even I can’t take care of two babies at once. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.” He turned to go.

“No.” John said, sitting up, “Don’t go, please. Stay here.”

“Told you you should’ve taken the graduated cylinders.” said Sherlock.

“That didn’t work so well on the stag night, did it?”

They both chuckled. “No, I suppose not.”

Sherlock sighed; there was no way he could resist John’s puppy face, so he lay down on the opposite end of the bed. As if on a sudden impulse, John shifted closer, putting his head on Sherlock’s chest and draping an arm over his stomach. As Sherlock let his hand softly graze John’s hair, he desperately tried to remember how to breathe. He turned his head and met John’s eyes, suddenly aware of how much he wanted to reach out and touch the crinkles by his eyes. Find out where they began, where they stopped, how deep they were…

“I told Mike you said you were sorry you missed his birthday.” John said.

“I’m not.”

“I know. That’s why we both laughed for ten minutes straight.” John said. “How did you know I’d get drunk tonight?”

“The restaurant.”

“Oh. Right. The one where you made your grand re-entry into life and I almost proposed to Mary.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and held John tighter, trying to etch the memory in his mind. John smelt like a mixture of mint, baby powder, and something else he couldn’t quite place…

“I miss Mary. She had nice….eyes.” John said quietly. He paused. “You know who else has nice eyes?”

“No?”

“You do.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“No, you twat, you have nice eyes.” John said, “Only I can never figure out what colour they are. They keep changing; green, blue, who knows?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. “Oh. Thank you. You’re very drunk.”

John buried his head deeper in Sherlock’s shirt. “Heterochromia iridis.” he said after a while, “It’s the medical term for your condition. That’s why your eyes change colour, depending on the light.”

Sherlock scoffed. _Trust John Watson to diagnose me when he’s drunk._

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

 _Dear god, he’s completely drunk. He probably won’t even remember any of this tomorrow._ “Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and -”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard it before. But am I pretty?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Of course you are. The prettiest.”

“Good.” John said, cuddling a little closer, making Sherlock’s breath hitch in his throat. If they could spend every night like this, he’d make sure John’s room never got renovated. How he wished John wasn’t drunk…

“John.”

“Hm.”

“Friends don’t do...this. What we’re doing.”

John traced his finger up Sherlock’s arm, hand finally resting somewhere at the nape of his neck.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe it’s been 4 seasons and Martin Sass Freeman still hasn’t said “No shit, Sherlock.” 
> 
> Also, in Arthur Conan Doyle’s novels, John writes, and I quote: “My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.” John is fully aware of the effect of his praise has on Sherlock, and he continues doing it in every single case :’) So yes, Sherlock’s praise kink is cannon.
> 
> Next update, next Wednesday!


	11. Chapter 11

John Watson didn’t want to get out of bed.

The first thing he noticed when he woke up was that he was practically sleeping on top of Sherlock. His head gave a painful throb and he mentally cursed himself. He hadn’t gotten this drunk since the stag night, but all the memories from that damn hotel…

 _What happened last night?_ he asked himself. He had a vague remembrance of Sherlock carrying him to bed, of asking him to stay, and of Sherlock’s fingers running through his hair. Had he forced Sherlock to call him...pretty?

John wondered why everything was so complicated and he couldn’t just tell Sherlock how he felt. Was he still grieving Mary? Partially. Was he still trying to build up the courage to apologize to Sherlock? Definitely. Was he afraid of rejection? Absolutely. Sherlock was still such an amateur when it came to understanding emotions. He probably thought that holding hands and cuddling and killing for each other were things people just _did_   when they cared. He didn’t want to scare Sherlock away with some sort of unrequited love confession. He just _couldn’t_. Sherlock was too precious to lose. Underneath the brilliance and the sociopathy, he was the warmest, kindest and most selfless person that John knew.

John would gladly have lain there forever, with Sherlock’s breath gently brushing the top of his head, but he was painfully aware of how parched his throat was. He groaned internally when he realized that it was Monday. He couldn’t skip work again, obviously; he liked to save his sick days for when he was very ill, or if he had to solve a case with Sherlock. He reluctantly slid out of bed and made his way to the kitchen, cringing with every step.

“Good morning, John.” Mrs Hudson said warmly. “Molly’s just dropped Rosie off. I thought I’d make you boys a cup of tea.”

“Er, thanks, Mrs Hudson.” John said, sitting down at the kitchen table. He had a full-blown headache now. “Listen, could you make us a spot of breakfast? I’m really not up to the task of cooking and Sherlock - you know how he gets when he’s on a case. He’ll set the kitchen on fire.”

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.”

“Okay, just some paracetamol then.”

Mrs Hudson smiled to herself as she set the kettle on the table. “So the couch hasn’t been slept on and your room is still out-of-sorts. You and Sherlock shared a bed, didn’t you?” When John didn’t answer, she turned to face him and smiled widely. “Well?” she demanded. “I’ll officiate the wedding.”

“What? No! Mrs Hudson, it wasn’t like that. We just fell asleep in the same room, that’s all.”

Mrs Hudson just grinned wider and left the room. As she busied herself looking for paracetamol and frying bacon for the boys, she mentally patted herself on the back. Her plan had been successful, at least partially.

_Nobody needs to know that I told the workers to fix John’s room as slowly as possible._

* * *

The steady _beep beep beep_ of the phone infuriated Mycroft. He had called Sherlock several times in the past hour, only to be ignored each time. Sherlock rarely ignored his calls - he usually just picked up, said “not now” and hung up. He was probably on a case, but Mycroft had urgent business with him. Since it was already late evening, he decided to head to Baker Street and wait for Sherlock anyway.

A while later, Mrs Hudson led him up the stairs, seeming unnaturally elated. The door was opened by John Watson, who quickly ushered him in. To his utter surprise, John handed Rosie to him and bustled off to the kitchen, saying “Hold her for a minute, will you?”

Mycroft held her at arm’s length, confused. He would never understand why people decided to have... _these_. Rosie stopped crying and surveyed him with equal parts interest and wariness. Finally, she happily reached out and tweaked his nose. “Ta.” she declared. He just held her even further, unsure about what to do. He hadn’t dealt with babies since Sherlock and Eurus, and he remembered all too well how _that_ had ended.

John returned. “Er, does it - sorry, she - normally speak?” Mycroft asked him.

“She just makes sounds right now. She should say her first word soon.” he said. He held his arms out for Rosie, but she clung on to Mycroft. “Do sit down, Mycroft.”

“What do I do with her?” Mycroft asked, bewildered.

“Just put her on your lap. She doesn’t bite. Not usually.”

Mycroft sat down and precariously balanced Rosie on his knee. “Where’s - _are you taking a photo?_ ”

John smiled, clearly trying hard to suppress a giggle. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. Ah, Sherlock’s going to love this.” He finally composed himself and sat down.

“Where is Sherlock? It’s important.”

“He’s gone out to get some paracetamol, but he’s been gone for quite some time, so I suppose he ran into a robbery on the way. Yes, I know it’s a little surprising. Sherlock leaving the flat for something as mundane as getting medicine for his flatmate.”

Mycroft surveyed him with surprise. Did John really not know? If he didn’t have a little more self-control, he would’ve bopped John with his umbrella and said _he’s in love with you, you utterly moronic goldfish. Take a hint._

“Doctor Watson, a few months ago, my brother killed a man for your sake. So I’d say I’m really not so surprised that he went out to buy you painkillers.” He handed Rosie to John and rose to leave. “Do let him know that I stopped by, and remind him to pick up Mummy’s birthday gift tomorrow.”

John nodded. “Say bye to Uncle Mycroft, Rosie!”

As Mycroft left the room, he glimpsed Rosie smiling gleefully and waving at him.

 _Uncle Mycroft._ He thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock wasn’t around.

* * *

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the straightened knocker. Mycroft had obviously dropped by. He half-ran, half-climbed up the stairs, feeling only slightly guilty about taking so long to buy John’s medicine. “I’ve got it.” he announced, setting the heavy shopping bag down.

“About time. What took you so - _what the hell?”_

Sherlock touched the rapidly throbbing bruise on his cheek. Compared to some of the other injuries he had amassed over time, it hardly bothered him, but he had expected John to overreact about it.

“Oh, this? Occupational hazard.” he said carelessly, but it was in vain. John was already wrapping up some ice, hangover forgotten.

“Lie down and put your head on my lap.” he commanded Sherlock, sitting down on the sofa.

Sherlock was pretty sure that bruise first-aid didn’t really require him to lie down, but he wasn’t foolish enough to pass up a chance like this, so he obeyed. When John placed one hand in his curls, Sherlock seriously debated his decision. It was a good idea to keep the bruised area elevated to reduce blood flow, and he was about 99% sure that he was blushing scarlet.

“So, who punched you this time?”

“Upton Adams. I broke into his hotel room.” Sherlock said casually.

John chuckled. “Oh god, seriously?”

“Found out where he was staying, got the keys to the adjoining room and jumped over from the balcony. I had to see him, John. The victim’s narrative often contains leading clues - ones which Lestrade would surely have overlooked in his interrogation. Remember Henry Knight? Remember how him saying _hound_ and not _dog_ eventually led to us solving the case?”

“Yea, ‘course I remember the Baskervilles. You tried to drug me and locked me in a cage for your experiment. Good times. By all means, do go on.”

“Right. I tried to get Adams to talk about the case, but - for god’s sake, John, be gentler with that ice pack! Are you trying to heal my face or bruise it further? - all he said was that he had already given his statement to the police. Told me that he’s had enough of dead sisters rising and is leaving for a monastery in Tibet tomorrow morning.”

“That’s strange. Oliver was more than happy to have as many people as possible on the case. He’s very involved. Come to think of it, if Harry’s ghost visited me, I’d want to see it solved, too.”

“Exactly. His clandestine behaviour was what tipped me off. He doesn’t want to deal with the police more than strictly necessary. John,” Sherlock’s voice rose to a dramatic crescendo, “His entire identity’s a fake!”

John frowned and ruffled Sherlock’s hair. “That’s a little far-fetched. Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?”

“No, I’m sure. It was merely a whim at first, but I confronted him and he completely panicked - that’s when he punched me and called security. If I dig around a little, I can probably find the real Upton and Bertha Adams somewhere.”

“First Irene Adler, now this guy.” John commented. “It’s frankly a little alarming how easy it is to fake identities now.”

“But if he’s really leaving for Tibet tomorrow, how on earth am I supposed to find out who he really is?”

“Oh, calm down. You’ll figure it out. Besides, it’s not like finding the Woman’s real identity helped us with the previous case.” He soothingly rubbed Sherlock’s forehead with his thumb, “Stop thinking. We need to reduce blood flow to your face.”

Sherlock scoffed. _As if you touching my face is going to help that._ He was convinced that all the affectionate gestures were going to make him spontaneously combust. John’s concerned face loomed above him, legs shifting slightly so that Sherlock could rest his head better. Just for a second, John’s thumb slipped out and touched the scar on Sherlock’s lower lip, guilt flashing across his face. Before he could do something stupid like kiss John’s finger, he sat up abruptly.

“Clothes.” he said automatically, and hurried off to his room. When he came back, John was rifling through the shopping bag.

“I send you off to buy paracetamol, and you come back with a bruised face, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a stuffed bumblebee toy, and - are these eyeballs? Well, at least you got the medicine - oh, wait.” He turned around to face Sherlock, accusingly dangling the packet of cigarettes in front of him.

“But the case, John!” Sherlock protested, dramatically flopping down on the sofa, dressing gown settling around him a cloud of blue silk. “I need to _think_. They help me.”

“You can think perfectly fine without them. As your doctor, I am officially confiscating these. Are there any hidden stashes of drugs I should be worrying about?”

Sherlock blinked and looked away. “I only need drugs when you’re not around.” he said quietly, but not quiet enough. _Now I’ve done it. Now I’ve said something to tip him off,_ Sherlock thought miserably.

There was a moment of silence, then to his utter surprise, John sighed resignedly and enveloped him in a warm hug.

* * *

John was at the clinic when he remembered.

He haphazardly packed up his things and hurried out, gracing the new receptionist with a “Sorry, gotta run! Let Sarah know.” He was halfway to Baker Street when he realized that he could’ve just texted or even called Sherlock. But no, this was far too important. In any case, he had no more appointments for the day. He burst into the sitting room, panting for breath.

“You’re early.” Sherlock said casually. The two-day-old bruise on his face was now blue, and John reminded himself to apply the ice pack again later. Sherlock frowned at him, half-rising from the armchair. “What’s wrong? John?”

“Bertha Adams - I’ve - she was here, talking to Mrs Hudson.”

“How long ago?”

“The night of your date with Irene Adler. I met her when I came back.”

“That was...three days before she died, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Exactly. Three days after she meets Mrs Hudson, who used to run a drug cartel, she dies of a drug overdose.”

“It was her husband’s cartel, she was just typing.” Sherlock said automatically, “But I do see what you’re driving at.”

“Do you have a plan, then?”

“Yes. We talk to Mrs Hudson.”

* * *

They found Mrs Hudson scrubbing dishes in the kitchen.

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said tonelessly, “Bertha Adams is dead.”

The effect was surprising and instantaneous. Mrs Hudson dropped her plate into the sink, muttered “Oh, dear.” and promptly fainted.

“Nicely put, Sherlock.” John muttered, as they dragged her to the kitchen table. “You stay with her, I’ll make the tea.”

A few minutes later, she finally came to. “When?” she asked faintly.

“Exactly eleven days ago. Drug overdose. There, there, Hudders.” Sherlock said soothingly, rubbing her shoulders.

She took a sip from the cup John had offered and grimaced slightly. “Not as good as mine, but it’ll have to do, I’m afraid. Well, you two certainly have questions. I suppose it’s no use trying to hide anything. Ask away.”

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

“Who’s Bertha? I mean, who is she _really_?” John asked.

“I can’t tell you her real name, boys, sorry.” Mrs Hudson said, “She was in the inner ring of my husband’s drug cartel. Her brother, too, but he wasn’t too keen on it. He tried to get out multiple times. After my husband’s execution, the cartel collapsed, they both changed their identities, and I never heard from them again.”

“Until Bertha turned up at your doorstep three days before her death.”

“Yes. I didn’t want to let her in; I thought that drug thing was gone and done with! But she insisted.”

“What did you talk about?”

Mrs Hudson took another gulp of tea. “She told me that she’d been receiving anonymous threats. Someone was prepared to put all the information about her past with the cartel straight into the hands of the police. I suppose she thought I was being threatened, too.”

“Were you?”

She swallowed. “I was, for a little while. Nothing I can’t handle. Just a few letters, saying clandestine things like ‘I know what you did’, snippets from a file, ‘I could go to the police’. No, you can’t have them, I’ve already burnt them. They stopped within a few days.”

Sherlock was quiet. The very thought that anyone would want to hurt Mrs Hudson made his blood boil. “You should’ve told us earlier, Mrs Hudson. I would’ve tracked this reptile down. I would’ve made them pay.”

“Yea, remember that time when an American attacked you and Sherlock threw him out of the window?” John added, “I was right _there_ when she visited. You could’ve told me. We wouldn’t let any harm come your way, you know that.”

Mrs Hudson smiled warmly at them. “Yes, of course I do. I just didn’t want that dreadful business catching up with me again. Now, off you pop. I have work to do.”

John and Sherlock shared an uneasy glance. Neither felt like letting Mrs Hudson off the hook so easily, but she could be uncannily stubborn when she wanted. They hesitantly rose to leave.

“Oh, one more thing,” Mrs Hudson said, “John, I do believe I know someone who would be interested in buying your house.”

“Why would I want to sell my house?”

“Oh, dear. Me and my big mouth. It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“What was?”

“I’ve been drawing up my will. I don’t intend to die anytime soon, of course, but what with bombs upstairs, one can never be too careful.” She shot them a stern look, but it quickly melted. “I’m leaving 221B Baker Street to the two of you. Oh, don’t look so shocked. This is your home, and it always has been."

She reached out and lovingly squeezed their shoulders.

“After all, you’re my Baker Street Boys.”

* * *

Sherlock sighed impatiently, closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He was _bored_. After spending the past two days unsuccessfully hounding Mrs Hudson for more information, he’d hit yet another dead end. At this point, he felt like a sitting duck - just waiting for the next crime, the next move on the chessboard. He recognized John’s gait on the stairs - _still limps very, very slightly_ \- and had to try hard not to smile. It was Friday, which meant he would get John all to himself for two entire days. The door opened and then slammed - _oooh, repressed anger_ \- but Sherlock didn’t bother opening his eyes.

“So, Irene Adler’s been here again.” John asked.

“However did you deduce that?”

“Met her at the door. Er, whatever it is that you two do in the seclusion of the flat - I would request you to control yourself around Rosie.”

“For god’s sake, John, we were _talking_ about the _case_.”

“Yes, okay. Not that I care, but yes. Fine. Okay.”

Sherlock opened one eye, wishing that John would stop blundering around under the delusion that he was interested in the Woman, or _any_ women. He was preparing to rebuke John for the millionth time, when Billy Wiggins appeared in the doorway. His mood immediately lightened. He’d had Billy and the homeless network hunting out the Golem for weeks, and this visit could only mean something important.

“How’s the little ‘un?” Billy asked John.

“Perfectly fine, thank you, Billy. You still visiting that drug den?”

“Nah. Living there now. Working for Sherlock got meself enough bucks to rent a room.”

“And if you want me to keep paying, you’d better cut to the chase.” Sherlock interrupted.

Billy didn’t disappoint him - he quickly came over and whispered a few words in his ear. Sherlock smiled and handed him some money, and he left, pleased.

“Should you be encouraging his drug habit?” John asked.

“Oh, he’s clean. Seeing me while I was hunting down Culverton apparently completely turned him off drugs. He just couldn’t afford a room anywhere else.”

“So what’d he say?”

“Oscar Dzundza’s going to kill tonight. I vaguely know the time and location. You coming?”

John smiled and zipped up his jacket. “A hunt for one of the deadliest assassins in the world? Of course I’m coming.”

* * *

As they stood in the cold winter air, waiting for a taxi, Sherlock noticed that John was resting more of his weight on one leg. He noticed that John’s jacket no longer filled out completely, and his belt was buckled a notch tighter. Sherlock hadn’t been paying much attention to his own meals lately, but he suddenly realized that neither had John. John never ate much at work and he hadn’t eaten anything since he’d come back. Since they’d visited Sherrinford, the nightmares and thrashing about on the couch had increased, too. He wondered if it had anything to do with whatever the hell it was that John was so intent on hiding from everyone.

 _His PTSD’s getting worse again_ , he thought, as he pulled out his phone and texted Billy.

 _Change of plans. I’ll be at the fish place. Signal me._  
_-SH_

He looked up and met John’s curious gaze.

“I know a place barely a block from the murder spot. Excellent fish and chips, and the owner always gives me extra portions. Hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Good. We have enough time to grab a bite.”

* * *

A huge plate of fish and chips later - none of which Sherlock ate, opting instead to watch John happily dig in - and Billy still hadn’t signalled. Sherlock sighed and shifted his gaze from the window to the waitress, who was flirting shamelessly with John. _His_ John. He’d endured it for the entire meal, but even Sherlock Holmes had limits, which had certainly been broached.

“I suggest you tell your boyfriend sooner rather than later that you’re only with him for his money.” he told her, gaze sliding over her expensive locket and shabby shoes. “In fact, I think he already knows.”

“Just ignore him.” John said, but she had already drifted away. “Sherlock, that was a bit not good.”

“Must you flirt with every woman you see?”

“Wha- you’ve got a dominatrix on speed dial!”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter, I’m gay.” He spotted something on the street, got up abruptly and pulled John with him, hurriedly putting some money on the table as he went. “That’s our signal. Let’s go.”

“Wait - you’re gay?” John asked, as they began walking down the street, Sherlock still pulling him along like an excited child at a fair.

“ _Of course_ I’m gay. You’re even blinder than I thought. Now, here’s the plan-”

“By the way, I wasn’t flirting. The last woman I tried that with turned out to be your crazy sister.”

“Yes, John, very good. You’ve brought your gun, I hope? If my sources are correct, we should be in time to stop a murder tonight. But we have to find out who he’s working for - so remember, don’t shoot him unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

They were now walking down a narrow lane in a distinctly desolate part of town; derelict buildings loomed on either side. Most of them had broken windows and wobbly doors, and John felt positive that save black and grey, all colour had leached out of the world. The area was almost completely deserted, but light shone in a few windows. Sherlock paused in front of a door, gently pushed it open and whispered, “This is the one. Let’s head upstairs, we’ll ambush him, quietly now - ”

He was cut off by a scream of agony from one of the upper floors. They barely took in their surroundings as they rushed in and bounded up the stairs, which seemed to spiral up endlessly. Finally, they sighted the Golem disappearing at the top of the stairs, and came out onto a landing where a girl lay sprawled and helpless.

“Go after him, I’ll do what I can for her!” John said, and Sherlock sped off again.

John knelt down next to her, and although he had known it was hopeless from the moment he set eyes on her, he took her pulse and checked her heartbeat. Silence. She couldn’t be older than twenty-one, and she was still warm. If they had just turned up a little earlier, they could’ve stopped the Golem…the Golem! Sherlock was alone with him, right now, on the _roof_. John would never be comfortable with Sherlock being on a roof ever again. Pulling out his gun, he climbed up the last few stairs.

The Golem’s back was to John, and he had Sherlock in a headlock, _too close to the edge_. John could hear Sherlock gasping for breath and clawing unsuccessfully at his captor’s strong arms. He tried not to panic as he buried his gun in the back of the Golem’s head, feeling a strange sense of deja vu.

“Let him go, Dzundza.” he said as calmly as he could, “Or I will kill you. You know I will.”

The Golem heard the deadly intent in his voice and turned around, and John had to suppress a shiver. He’d seen the Golem before, but that didn’t make his nightmarish face or milk-white skin any less haunting. He released Sherlock, hit out and knocked the gun out of John’s hand, grinning. While John grappled with him, Sherlock recovered and picked up the gun. Between the two of them, they finally managed to pin the Golem down - John holding down his legs while Sherlock restrained his arms.

“Tell me who you’re working for, Dzundza.” Sherlock threatened, jamming the gun into his forehead. “Or I’ll shoot. Better yet, I’ll call the police.”

The Golem just stared at them in silence, struggling to get out of their grasp. Finally, he calmed down and spat in Sherlock’s face, narrowly missing it. John had to restrain himself from punching him.

“Very well, then.” Sherlock said with dignity. He loosened his hold for a moment to shoot the air. John could hear the police sirens getting closer, and he knew that Lestrade would’ve been awaiting the signal.

“There’s no escape now. We’re surrounded. I can still help you get away - but only if you tell me who hired you to kill James Oliver.”

Silence, apart from the sounds of car doors opening and closing down the street. Running footsteps on the stairs.

“The police have their own methods of extracting the truth, you know. I doubt they show much mercy to assassins.” he added.

As he accepted his predicament, something akin to hopelessness came over the Golem’s face, only to be replaced by hard resolve. With a sudden burst of energy, he wrestled the gun from Sherlock’s hand - and shot himself through the mouth.

* * *

No matter how much he scrubbed, Sherlock couldn’t get the metallic smell of blood off his face, or the vision out of his eyes. When the Golem had shot himself, a fair amount of blood had splattered on Sherlock, and although he’d cleaned off most of it then and there, he still felt dirty. John had finally dragged him back home, and he was now standing alone in the bathroom, rubbing his face raw, too spooked to change out of his bloodstained clothes. It was one thing to watch someone’s brains blow out - he’d seen Moriarty do it, done it to Magnussen himself - and quite another to have them splatter all over your face.

The door opened and John peeked in. “Try Rosie’s wipes. They’re pretty effective - oh, Sherlock, you’re shaking. Here, let me do it.”

Sherlock wasn’t exactly in a position to argue, so he just shrugged and let John take over, deft doctors’ fingers dabbing carefully at his face with a scented wipe.

“Breathe.” John said softly. “You need to calm down. Focus on my face. It’s a better world without him.”

“I _am_ calm.” Sherlock said indignantly. “The girl. We could’ve saved her, if we had just been a little quicker…”

John sighed heavily, like he knew that there was no point in denying what they were both thinking. They’d gone out to prevent a death and witnessed two. He dropped the wipes and took Sherlock’s hand, massaging it softly, and Sherlock suddenly felt a lot calmer. Treated this way by anyone else, he would’ve felt patronized, but he didn’t mind John. John always pieced him back together after a case - physically and sometimes emotionally. Although he didn’t get attached to clients, he did try his best to save innocent lives. If a death happened when he could’ve prevented it, he considered it failure of the worst kind.

Suddenly unbearably weary, he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead lightly against John’s, resisting the urge to lean in even closer. He was tempted to check John’s pulse for a reaction - _but what if isn’t elevated?_ \- and decided against it. Even without the pulse, he could gauge the effect he was having - John’s head tilting slightly upwards, the almost imperceptible increase in the pressure on his hand - but they were interrupted by Rosie’s angry scream at being neglected for so long.

John drew away. “Better get back to her. Take a hot shower. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

Not quite trusting himself to look up, Sherlock just nodded.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if I mentioned this before, but they haven’t received Mary’s ‘Baker Street Boys’ CD yet. Not trying to Mary-bash or anything, but if anyone deserves to call them her Baker Street Boys, it’s Hudders. <3


	13. Chapter 13

 That night, John woke up sweating and breathing hard. He’d seen it happen again - Sherlock’s body whooshing through the air and smashing on the pavement, spread-eagled and broken.

_Calm down. He’s sleeping in the next room._

_But what if he isn’t? What if he’s actually dead and I dreamt it all, him coming back, everything?_

_Don’t be ridiculous._

But try as he might, he couldn’t go back to sleep, and he couldn’t decelerate his heartbeat, and _goodbye John_ kept ringing in his ears like some sort of awful cacophony from hell. Finally, he gave up and went to the bedroom, calming down only when he saw the moonlight illuminate Sherlock’s face. He was clearly agitated, mumbling and thrashing, but he was alive.

John had seen it before, whenever someone innocent died - the guilt, the nightmares, the restlessness, the sulking. They lasted anywhere from a few hours to a few days, and Sherlock was usually best left alone with a blanket and a cup of tea. But John couldn’t bear to leave him alone now, and he slid into the blanket.

“You really are the most human human being I have ever known.”

“John?”

“Sherlock. Did you have a bad dream?”

Silence, then a rustling of bedsheets as Sherlock buried his face in John’s chest.

“Shh. It’s okay. You’re not alone anymore. I’ll stay here till you fall asleep - and after, if you want.”

“I want.”

“Good. No more thinking. Go back to sleep now.”

* * *

Next Tuesday found John struggling hard to stay awake, although it was barely noon. Between a restless detective and a screaming baby, it had been nearly impossible to sleep the night before. He tiredly stirred the coffee, rubbing his eyes; it wouldn’t do to fall asleep at work again. The door opened and the receptionist (he was yet to learn her name; she was the fourth since Mary) peeked in.

“Er, there’s a man at the desk who doesn’t have an appointment, but he keeps insisting that he has to see you - says it’s a matter of life and death. Shall I send him in?”

Before John could even nod, Sherlock sauntered in. John rose, alarmed. Sherlock never visited him at work. “What’s wrong? Is Rosie fine? Did the flat blow up again? Is Mrs Hudson - “

Sherlock simply grabbed his arm and dragged him out, and he barely managed to mumble an apology to the receptionist. When they were bundled up into a taxi and well on their way to god-knows-where, John noticed that Sherlock was positively bouncing. _Huh. So much for not getting any sleep._

“Another break-in, John!” he said cheerfully.

“Ah, another dead relative paying a surprise visit in the middle of the night? That’s nice, I suppose. Certainly something to be happy about. If the three on the door is green, you’re doing the dishes tonight.”

“Fine. Any other colour means you do them. And you didn’t sleep last night.”

“With Rosie’s tantrums and you prowling around the flat like some sort of half-deranged otter, no, Sherlock, I bloody well didn’t.”

“Hm. Did you think about what Mrs Hudson said? About selling your house?”

A pause.

“Yes. I’m selling it. I can’t afford the mortgage on my own, and even if I could...I can’t go back there. I don’t want to. ”

“Then stay at Baker Street.” Sherlock turned to face him, eyes intense and piercing. “You and Rosie - you can both stay for as long as you want. There’s plenty of space, but if Rosie needs more, I can shift my experiments -”

“Sherlock! Calm down, I’m not going anywhere. Mrs Hudson’s right; our flat is the best home I’ve ever had. I’m staying with you until you pick me up and throw me out.”

Sherlock smiled. “I could never throw you out. You do take up a lot of unnecessary space, but you have your uses.”

“...thank you?”

As they got out of the cab, John took in their surroundings for the first time. It was certainly a much posher neighbourhood than the ones they’d visited for the previous crimes. The road was lined with police cars, and John could see one or two policemen inspecting the walls of the house. The nameplate read _Rachel Evans_. Underneath it, painted in red, was the number 3.

Sherlock gave John a _guess-who’s-doing-the-dishes-tonight_ smirk, then turned back to the door. “There used to be two nameplates.”

The door was opened by a sullen, tired-looking man. “What do you want?” he asked.

Sherlock eyed him carefully, then shoved past him and into the house. “With the police.”

They entered a big sitting room, where Lestrade was engaged in conversation with a pretty blonde woman.

“Ah, finally! This is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, they’ll be helping with the case.”

“Helping?” Sherlock asked.

“Yea, all right, they’ll probably solve it on their own. This is Rachel Evans.” The lady smiled and shook hands with them. For someone whose house had just been broken into by a corpse, she looked decidedly calm. However, John could see that she was only pretending to hold it together. He knew the signs. He’d done it himself so many times.

“You work at a bee farm.” Sherlock commented, looking around the living room. “Think you could organize a tour for me someday?”

John nudged him. “Bad timing, maybe?”

Rachel didn’t seem to mind. “Of course I can. Sit down. Okay, first things first: my husband Fred died a month ago.”

“Very sor-” John started, but Sherlock cut him off. “You had separate nameplates, and you took his down after his death. I take it the marriage wasn’t a happy one?”

“No.” Rachel bit her lip and twisted her wedding ring. “We were very young when we got married. Barely out of college. It was all sunshine and rainbows for a few years. But then he made a couple of bad investments, lost all his money, and that’s when we first started having problems. He...changed. I won’t go into details, but he started going around with quite a rough crowd, getting dead drunk on a regular basis, that sort of thing.”

“He used to hit you.” Sherlock said softly. “What compelled you to stay with him?”

She started a little at his deduction, but took a deep breath and steadied herself again. “I kept thinking it was just a phase and he would grow out of it. Clearly, I was wrong, but it took me quite a while to realize it. After that, I held on for a few years for Noel’s sake. That’s my son. Eventually, I decided that enough was enough, and I got in touch with my lawyer to start discussing the proceedings. But as it turns out, there was no need for a divorce, because that night he...you know.”

“How did he die?”

“Well, he came home from wherever he had been and told me that he had to go Stargrounds immediately. That’s a campsite on the outskirts of London, by the way. He used to take Noel and I there back when - back when we were still a family. Anyway, that evening, he seemed agitated and kind of twitchy, but he wasn’t drunk. So he took his car and left, and a few hours later, I got a call from the police. His car was parked near Stargrounds and he was lying a few feet away, his throat slit.”

She had to take a moment to compose herself then, but quickly continued in a more steady voice. “Last night, Noel and I were upstairs in our rooms, and we heard some noises downstairs. Both of us were too scared to go check, so we just stood at the top of the staircase and shone a torch down, and we saw...him. Again. Just staring at us from the bottom, and then he turned around and left. I pulled Noel inside my room, locked us both inside, and called the police. We stayed inside the room the entire time, and when the police finally came, they searched the house with a fine tooth comb. But they couldn’t find anyone.”

She put her head in her hands, trembling a little. John and Sherlock shared a look, but before either of them could do anything, a tall, teenage boy had entered the room and was sitting beside her, hugging her gently.

“Mom, are the police bothering you again?” he asked. He looked up and seemed to notice Sherlock and John for the first time. His eyes went as round as dinner plates. “You’re Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. I read your blog. Are you working on this case?”

“Yes, actually.” John said, “You must be Noel.”

Noel half-smiled at them, gaze flitting between the two, slightly awed. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Try not to question mom too much. She’s had a rough couple of weeks, but she keeps insisting that she can handle it.”

“Go back to your room, young man. I don’t want you hanging around this investigation. You don’t need the trauma.” Rachel said, sternly. “Oh, but eat something, you haven’t eaten since yesterday -” But he had already gone back up the stairs.

“Your son’s depressed.” Sherlock commented. “Has been for quite a while, actually. Is he seeing a psychologist?”

She looked rather startled. “No, he...he’s been sad, recently, but no, not depressed.”

“Yes, depressed. He self-harms, and quite frequently at that. He kept pulling his sleeve down, and he winced painfully a few times - he doesn’t cut his wrists, but a little further up, so that people won’t notice. I’ve seen it before…anyhow, could it have been triggered by his father’s death?”

She hesitated and pursed her lips. “It’s possible. But not in the way that you think. I think his reappearance last night shook Noel more than his death.”

John tried to smile reassuringly. “Look, we really don’t want to pressure you into talking about this, but every single detail - everything helps.”

She sighed resignedly. “Noel’s gay. He told me a few months ago, and he made me promise I’d keep it a secret from his father, because Fred was quite the homophobe. I never would’ve married him if I knew, but, like I said...he changed. A few weeks before his death, he came home in a drunken rage, and he walked in on Noel and his boyfriend in the basement. Well, he...he starting beating Noel then. Not the slap kind. The belt kind. ” Her hands clenched angrily. “I wasn’t at home, or I would’ve stopped him. For days after that, I kept pestering Noel about why he winced like that every time he leaned back against anything, and he finally broke down and told me about it. That’s when I called my lawyer to find out about a possible divorce.”

John swallowed. It reminded him a little of his own childhood, although his father would never hit a child...he turned to find Sherlock watching him intently. Sherlock looked away quietly.

“Who was the man who opened the door for us?” he asked.

“That’s our live-in help, Mark. He’s been with us for a couple of months. You can interrogate him if you want, but you won’t get very far. He’s very reserved.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment. “I’d like to visit Stargrounds. It might shed some light on this. Could you and Noel accompany us? I have an inkling that you could help.”

“Would tomorrow evening suit you?”

“Thank you. We’ll examine the house now.”

* * *

“No signs of forced entry anywhere, I’m absolutely certain you didn’t leave any doors unlocked or windows open...that leaves only one option. Someone let Ghost Father into the house.”

John winced. “Sherlock, Ghost Father? A bit not good.”

“You and your son were upstairs. That leaves Mark, the help. He hasn’t been with you for very long, so there’s none of that _loyalty_ thing in him. Did he know about the beating?”

Rachel nodded. “He’s the one who eventually pulled Fred off.”

Sherlock rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Lestrade, go get him, then we’ll all interrogate him together.”

Lestrade brought Mark into the living room, and he stood there, scared and shaking like a leaf. Sherlock hadn’t even asked him anything yet, and his eyes were already darting around like that of a criminal caught in the act.

“You let a man into this house yesterday.” Sherlock said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. He chose a date and a time, and all you had to do was slip into the main hall from your room and unlock the main door.”

Lestrade nonchalantly rattled his handcuffs, and Mark burst into tears.

“Yes, I did, I did!” he said through his sobs. Rachel gasped. “I had no choice, I was contacted and offered money and my wife back home needs it, what with a baby on the way and - “

“Didn’t you notice that the man you let in looked exactly like the now dead inhabitant of this house?” John asked.

“No idea. I was told to unlock the door and go back to my room.”

“Who contacted you?” Sherlock asked eagerly.

“I - I don’t know. I was walking home from somewhere late one night when a man grabbed me and put a knife to my throat and pushed me up against a wall. It was too dark, I couldn’t even see his face. He just told me that I would receive a letter soon and I had better do exactly as it said - or he would find me and kill me.”

“The letter directed you to open the door on a pre-determined date and contained a small enclosure of cash, just enough to get you begging for more. What else?”

“It also had - had - my wife’s address, and a photo of her sleeping, and it said that if I didn’t do exactly what was asked of me, I’d see her dead.”

“Can I see the letter?”

“I burnt it. It said to burn it.”

“Dear god, what is it with you people and burning evidence?” Sherlock banged his fist on the table in frustration. “All right, Lestrade, take him away.”

Rachel nodded to them and followed Lestrade out, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the living room.

“If we’re done here, I’m going back to the clinic.”

“Why?”

“Because I have appointments to keep and problems to solve. Illness doesn’t stop for a break.”

Sherlock’s heart swelled. He knew that if he had to deal with John’s overreacting patients on a daily basis, he would be out of the clinic before you could say _deduction_. John was clearly exhausted, and he had the perfect excuse to blow off work for the day, but he still chose to go back to the clinic and help people with their mundane everyday problems.

“You go on. I’m going to talk to Noel, see if I can put a stop to his cutting.”

John smiled softly.

“You’re a good man, Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read this story on fanfiction.net and wattpad:  
> https://www.wattpad.com/story/96901711-beyond-the-gravestones-sherlock-johnlock-fanfic  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12330241/1/Beyond-The-Gravestones-Johnlock-fanfic

When Sherlock entered the room, Noel dropped his book. Sherlock glanced around - there were books and clothes everywhere. The desk was cluttered with a pile of assignments. The general mess reminded him of their living room, with all its toys and baby clothes.

Noel grinned, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement. “Sherlock Holmes in my room - wow. I’ve always thought of a thousand things I’d ask you if we ever met, but honestly, right now, I can only think of one. So you don’t actually wear the hat?”

“No, of course not.”

“Oh. Well, um...do you need some help with the case?”

“Pull up your sleeve.”

“No. Why?”

“You just confirmed my hypothesis. You self-harm.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then pull up your sleeve.”

Noel stubbornly bit his lip.

“Noel - is that your name? - you must listen to me carefully. There’s nothing wrong with you and absolutely no reason to be ashamed. People are wired differently, and who you really are - it matters, and it’s fine. It’s all fine.”

His eyes followed the way Noel was hugging his pillow. “Look there!” he said suddenly, pointing out of the window, and Noel looked. In a trice Sherlock had the pillow and had plunged his hand into the stuffing. He pulled out a small tin box and opened it to find, as expected, the small blades. Noel stiffened.

“Your body works day and night to keep you alive, Noel. All that blood and bone and muscle. Don’t hurt it. Don’t disregard it. Situations change, but these scars - they’re a permanent reminder of what went wrong.”

Noel swallowed shakily. “Look, I - I appreciate this, but you don’t know me. With all due respect, you really don’t know what it’s like in _here_ , in my head.”

Sherlock’s fingers closed over the marks on his own forearm, and then he was thinking about the loneliness, and those dark days in Europe while he’d hunted down Moriarty’s men. He’d never thought he could be lonely….but before John, he’d never known he could have friends. He swallowed and brought himself back to the present, back to this small, scared boy in front of him, and left the room, taking the blades with him.

* * *

Sherlock paced his room that night, his frustration increasing. Chasing down the person who was orchestrating this drama was turning out to be a lot more difficult than he’d thought. Irene, Mrs Hudson, the help at the Evans’ - none of them had led back to anything. Even the Golem had chosen to die rather than reveal his employer’s name. The only person who had ever inspired such fear was...well, Moriarty.

He wanted to pick up his violin and play something to help him think clearer, but he also didn’t want to disturb John or Rosie. The poor man really needed a good night’s sleep. When he wasn’t tending to Rosie or his patients, he was looking after Sherlock, forcing him to eat or sleep enough. Sherlock didn’t mind. He’d noticed that his body did tend to shut down after a few days of fasting.

Sherlock had to admit that deep down, he was starting to feel a _little_ hopeful about his situation with John. Of course, he didn’t have much practical experience, and he couldn’t decide where to draw the line between _platonic_ and _romantic_. But ever since John had moved back into Baker Street, there was something...different. Like glances and casual touches that lingered for seconds longer than necessary. Or the fact that it was no longer uncommon for them to wake up in the same bed - either John would crawl in because Sherlock had nightmares, or Sherlock would wake him up and bring him in when he thrashed about on the sofa. Sherlock put it all down to a craving for human intimacy due to his lingering grief.

“Sherlock!”

On hearing the strangled cry, Sherlock immediately grabbed his gun from the bedroom table and ran out, heart thumping hard. _Who is it why are they here who’s hurting him what’s going on - oh it’s just him and Rosie._ He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw John swinging Rosie up and down, looking perfectly happy, and dropped his gun.

“John, what on God’s green earth? You nearly gave me a heart attack. The next time you need help changing a diaper, you could just shake me awake -”

“Rosie just said her first word!”

“ - instead of screaming your head off - she _what_?”

“She said daddy.”

Rosie giggled. “Daddy.”

“Oh.” Sherlock stepped forward tentatively. “ _Oh_. Rosie, say murder.”

“Sherlock! I thought we had talked about this. God, I wish Mary were here to see this.” John sighed and hugged her tighter. She squirmed out of his embrace and stared at Sherlock, then declared, “Dadda.”

“Huh?”

“DADDA.”

“Sherlock, that’s you.” John said proudly. “Here, take her.”

Sherlock did.

“So...I’m daddy, and you’re dadda.” John said.

“I suppose.”

John looked up, eyes shining with happiness and pride, and Sherlock didn’t even question it _(sentiment?)_. After months of conversing with Rosie in sounds and gestures, it was another thing entirely to hear her actual voice. They passed her back and forth as she said _daddy_ and then _dadda_ , and then John finally stepped forward and crushed them both into a hug.

“This, Sherlock, is what _family_ feels like.”

“Oh. I think I like it.”

“Not something I ever thought I’d hear you say.”

“I am offended by that assumption.”

John laughed, and they broke apart and set about putting Rosie back to sleep. Finally, they sat down next to each other in the semi-darkness, thoroughly exhausted.

“John.”

“Hm.”

“You had a homophobic father.”

Despite all the distance between them, Sherlock could almost feel John tensing up next to him.

“Yes.” he finally said, “When Harry came out, nobody reacted well. Not him, not mom, not any of our relatives. I tried to stick up for her, but he was quite immovable. Mum and dad didn’t even come to her wedding.”

“Where are they now?”

“They died while I was in Afghanistan. TB.”

Sherlock had always thought that John’s parents lived somewhere out in the country. When they hadn’t been on the guest list for John’s wedding, he assumed there was some unresolved ongoing family conflict and decided against asking John about it. And his father...so _that_ was why his sexuality was such a touchy subject with him. Sherlock couldn’t imagine missing Rosie’s wedding, no matter who she chose to marry.

All these years, and he hadn’t even noticed this crucial detail about John. At a loss for words, he closed the space between them and tentatively put a comforting hand on John’s knee. John stiffened and Sherlock sighed resignedly - _too far?_ \- but then John put his hand on top of Sherlock’s and squeezed.

“Thanks, Sherlock. You going to sleep?”

“I am.”

“Should I come with you?”

“Of course.”

* * *

After the dust and smoke of London, the fresh air of Stargrounds was quite a pleasant change. John, Sherlock, Noel and Rachel were standing on the outskirts of a small wood - well, Sherlock was crawling, searching for something in the dust. John could tell that he was already bitterly disappointed by whatever he had found. Finally, he heaved a frustrated sigh and got up, lightly dusting his trousers. _Of course,_ John thought. _Posh boy’s wardrobe probably costs more than my annual income._

“Where do you camp, exactly?”

“There are a few spots in the woods, but we mostly stuck to this path and trekked to a small hill just beyond the trees. Stellar view, and no animals nose into the camp.” Noel said.

“Take us there.” Sherlock said.

John wasn’t entirely sure what the point of visiting Stargrounds was, especially since Noel’s dad's murder had taken place almost a week ago. In any case, they’d already examined the exact spot where his car had been found and come up with nothing. He followed Noel and Rachel into the trees, but hung back a little to talk to Sherlock.

“What’s in those?” he asked curiously, pointing to the heavy backpacks Sherlock had been toting around.

“A tent, clothes, sandwiches, some other stuff.”

“Oh, are you camping?”

“No, we are.”

John looked at him in surprise. “Seriously? I thought you didn’t care - “

“It’s for the case - and don’t worry about Rosie, she’s with Molly. I need to watch this area for a night, just to see if there’s anything suspicious going on. I could use your company, I suppose.”

John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock bristled. “Oh, all right. I thought it would be a nice change for you, since you’re always griping about bloody London air and the honking, but if you’re going to be so - “

“No! No, I think it’s a great idea.” John smiled widely at him. “Honestly, I’ve always loved camping, and it is good to get out of London for a while. Just didn’t peg you as the type.”

“I do have faint recollections of camping with Mycroft and Redbe - Victor Trevor. Anyway, now that you know, you can carry this bag. Back to the business at hand - there are still plenty of things I’d like to ask Mrs Evans about Mark.”  
  
They caught up with Noel and Rachel and Sherlock fell behind, engaging Rachel in conversation. Noel and John walked on ahead, separately, each lost in his own thoughts. They were surrounded by tall trees on both sides, well-sheltered from the evening sun. John softly stomped on the crunchy leaves as they followed the worn forest path. He glanced at Noel and decided to break the awkward silence.

“So, what are you planning to major in when you go to college?”

“I don’t know.” Noel said vaguely, snapping back to the present. “Literature, I suppose. Er - is everything you write on the blog true?”

“Very much so.”

“Oh.”

They fell into silence again, and John noticed that they’d left Sherlock and Rachel far behind. He hoped that Sherlock had the good sense to follow the path and not run off into the woods on some wild scent. Noel stopped abruptly and stepped into the trees, leading John into a clearing. Set in the middle was a pond, its surface pristine and undisturbed, save a few stray leaves.

“I used to come swimming here with dad sometimes.” Noel said softly.

As John dropped his bag and glanced into the pond - it looked quite deep - he felt some of the old panic returning. He forced himself to take deep breaths and look away, and stepped back a little. _You’re being unreasonable,_ he told himself _. You know how to swim._

_But it isn’t the terror of drowning. It’s more the terror of putting your head under and not being able to breath or see beyond the torrent of -_

He took another few breaths, shutting off his thoughts and turning away.

“Dr Watson.” Noel half-whispered, still staring into the water, “Could you - could you double back and get mom? I just want to be here with her for a short while. Could you do that for me?”

“Yes, of course.” John said, jumping at the idea of getting away from the pond. He easily found the path again and followed it to where Rachel was standing. He could see Sherlock standing a few feet away, frowning at the bark of a tree.

“Dr Watson? Where’s Noel?”

“Er, he sent me back to call you. He stopped at a pond - said him and his dad used to swim there?”

Rachel looked at him blankly. “Noel doesn’t know how to swim. None of us do.”

At almost the same moment, they both made the connection between what Sherlock had told them yesterday and what Noel was doing now. The boy was depressed, he couldn’t swim, he lied to get John away for a few seconds, he was alone near a pond, and the way he had been looking at the water - _oh, Christ._

Even as the first few vestiges of panic began to appear on Rachel’s face, John was already running full pelt back to the clearing. He could see Noel’s arms desperately flailing somewhere in the middle, and he quickly ripped off his jacket and shoes and dived in. The water was cold and his muscles seized a little as he swam furiously for the first time in months, but there was no time to process. He was right - the pond was deep, and also apparently a lot wider than it looked. As he finally reached Noel, just in time to grab his unconscious body, he could hear Rachel yelling from the edge.

He tried to keep a firm grip on Noel as he started paddling back again, suddenly aware of how much harder it was to stay afloat. He vaguely heard Sherlock’s strangled cry from the edge of the pond - _John!_ \- as the panic he’d been avoiding till now started to set in. Noel wasn’t light, and he was dragging them both down. John was struggling to keep both his head and Noel’s above the water, trying to hold on as the faces and lights flashed before his eyes.

_John, don’t be stupid, you can swim. Just take deep breaths -_

The voice in his head changed, mirroring the same rough one that had tormented him for months at a time: _You want pain? I’ll give you pain._

The water covered his mouth and he was instantly back in that hellhole, tied to the wood, and his shoulder wound flared up with phantom pain. Years of suppressed memories and trauma were finally resurfacing, and he was dimly aware that his legs were wildly thrashing to keep him afloat.

And then suddenly there wasn’t wood or cold metal behind his back anymore - it was warm muscle.

“I’ve got you, John.” Sherlock whispered, “Keep a tight grip on Noel. We’re going to get out of the water, just keep swimming.”

Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, and he let his head fall back on Sherlock’s shoulder, grateful for the support. At least his nose and mouth were out of the water now - but his shoulder still hurt, and he was still panicking, though it was slightly manageable now that Sherlock was with him.

Somehow, they made it to the edge, and as they clambered out of the water, he finally blacked out. The last thing he saw was Sherlock’s concerned face and Rachel’s teary one - and then he passed into oblivion.

* * *

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock wrapped John in his coat, hands frantically reaching for his pulse. _Erratic, but slowly coming back to normal._ He would’ve performed CPR, but John was breathing, and he hadn’t passed out from lack of oxygen anyway. His PTSD was manifesting itself again - the water...

“John, come on, wake up. Open your eyes, please. Please.” he said hoarsely. He was vaguely aware that Rachel was doing the same with her son, but he had to wake John up first -

John spluttered a little and his eyes flew open.

“Oh, thank god - “ Sherlock started, breathing a sigh of relief, but he didn’t get very far.

“The boy, Sherlock, the boy!”

John quickly scrambled up and wrapped Noel in Rachel’s coat, all panic forgotten. _Well, if he’s going all Doctor mode again, I suppose he’s well enough,_ Sherlock thought. John frantically tried to revive Noel, and after a few seconds, Noel coughed water. Only when he was able to sit up and breathe properly did John rest easy.

Rachel leaned forward and wrapped her son in a hug.

“I’m so sorry, mom.”

“No, I’m sorry. I should’ve noticed. I should’ve done something - ”

“Please don’t say that. It’s not your fault.”

She smiled weakly and hugged him tight again. “Thank you.” she said to Sherlock and John, “Really. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there.”

“Thanks.” Noel said hoarsely. “Doctor Watson, I’m sorry you almost drowned because of me.”

“Anytime - actually, no, I’d rather not do it again.” John said.

“I’m not going to try anything like this ever again.” Noel promised.

“If you ever get the urge to, ever again,” Sherlock said softly, “You know where to find me. Well, I suppose I have everything I need. You two can go home if you’d so like - just show me the way to the hill where you camp.” He turned to John, who was pulling Sherlock’s coat tighter around himself, as if trying to melt into the fabric. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I ruined your coat.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I have more of those, but there’s only one of you.”

* * *

The hill was just as Noel had described it. From the summit, Sherlock could see the woods and the knoll of grassy land stretching away around it. The setting sun bathed the view in soft light, and the best part of it all was that there wasn't a soul around for miles. Except for, well, John, who was currently struggling to set up the tent.

"Hey, Picasso, if you're done judging the scenery, how about you help me with this tent?"

"You're a soldier. Surely you can do it on your own."

John glared at him, and he sighed and strode over to help. Out in the middle of nowhere with an angry army doctor for company - Sherlock wouldn’t have had it any other way.

"No, Sherlock, don't - you're doing it wrong- _for god's sake, don't pull that!_ "

Too late. A section of the tent collapsed and John groaned.

“I can’t believe you don’t have 'how to set up a tent' in your mind palace. That’s basic information.”

"You do it, then, if you're so clever."

"Fine. Stop bothering me and go unpack the sandwiches."

"Fine."

"Fine."

* * *

Countless sandwiches later (he could almost hear Mrs Hudson in his head; “I’m not your housekeeper! Oh, just this once, then”), John leaned back against the tent and sighed contentedly.

“I can see why this place is called Stargrounds. You can’t see even half of these stars from London.” he said to Sherlock, who was standing some distance away and squinting at the forest. Apparently dissatisfied, he turned and settled down beside John, shoulder to shoulder. They’d both been invading each other’s private space a lot recently, but John didn’t mind, of course. There was no point in pretending they were just platonic anymore.

“Do you believe in horoscopes, Sherlock?”

“Of course not. It’s all part of mankind’s wish to make everything revolve around them. The motion of stars is governed by gravity and possibly dark matter. The idea that they somehow align themselves for the insignificant events of human lives - it’s a ridiculous notion.”

“Well, you must’ve been a delight at campfire sing-alongs. Did anyone ever throw you into the bonfire?”

“Oh, believe me, they tried.”

They sat in silence for a while, John’s eyes tracing the familiar constellations, and he decided he’d have to bring Rosie here someday. His view was blocked when Sherlock turned to sit cross-legged in front of him, looking rather hesitant.

“John, there are...things...I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Ask away.” he said, heart definitely thumping a little faster. _Goddammit, John, every single time._

“I’ve been thinking, and putting the pieces together - you’re not obliged to tell me anything, of course, but - you remember our meeting with Moriarty by the pool?”

“Yes.”

“When I ripped your coat off, you stumbled away - but you didn’t distance yourself from the explosives. You were trying to get away from the pool. Today, the water triggered your PTSD. Eurus chose to drown you, and I doubt it was just for metaphorical value. But you don’t just have hydrophobia. It’s something more complex.”

John stiffened. He could see what Sherlock was driving at.

“When we met Ajay in Morocco, you remember what he told us about his captors -”

_But they took me, they tortured me._

“ - I watched you. I saw your reaction. You dropped your head into your hands, like you couldn’t bear to listen, and almost curled up as if to protect yourself.”

_Not for information. Not for anything except fun._

“What really happened in Afghanistan? And I’m not talking about your shoulder wound or that psychosomatic limp.”

John should’ve figured that Sherlock would read him like an open book. He had never told _anyone_ about it - not even his therapists, not even Mary. He knew it was the wrong approach, but he figured that if he never spoke about it, he wouldn’t have to deal with it. He didn’t want their patronizing pity, because they wouldn't understand. They didn’t _know_. Them saying “I’m sorry” wouldn’t make the nightmares go away.

But Sherlock knew. He didn’t strut around the apartment naked anymore, but sometimes John glimpsed the scars on his back - scars that certainly hadn’t existed before his 2-year long solo mission. John didn’t ask about them - perhaps he didn’t want to invade Sherlock’s privacy, perhaps he was scared they’d trigger his own memories. Sherlock wouldn’t pity and mollycoddle him. He’d move on, accepting John the way he was. So John swallowed, looked up and tried to speak.

“I - you know what, no. I can’t. You already know it. You say it.”

“You were a hostage in Afghanistan -“

John found his voice. “Waterboarding. That’s how they tortured me.”

“Waterboarding - that’s when they cover your face with a cloth and - “

“Yes, I am perfectly aware, thank you very much.”

Sherlock took John’s hand, interlacing their fingers and raising his eyebrows as if in question. John squeezed back. The world was swimming again and the physical contact was his only anchor.

“And yet you jumped into the water today. You’re a strong man, John Watson.”

John looked at Sherlock then, registering the concern on his face, and everything stabilised a little. A lump rose in his throat. Sherlock was always so _gentle_ with him. He didn’t deserve this - any of this - to be sitting here on a moonlit night, holding Sherlock’s hand, talking about _his_ pain and _his_ problems and being listened to. He didn’t deserve Sherlock’s care and attention and whatever the tender gleam in his changeable eyes was.

“I’m not as strong or as brave as you think I am.” he said, voice hoarse as he struggled to rein in the emotion, “Or I wouldn’t have done _this_.”

Sherlock’s expression changed to one of confusion, but it dissolved instantly when John’s thumb brushed his lip. The scar from the morgue was still there.

Sherlock’s voice trembled slightly when he spoke. “I thought we were past that.”

“How could we be, when I didn’t even bother to apologize? I’m sorry. Oh god, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I could’ve - ”

“It’s okay. You were grieving - ”

“- and I took it out on you. No, it’s not okay, not even remotely. Don’t you see? I hurt you. Not just because I hit you, but because I shut you out when you were just trying to help. You ended up in a _hospital_ because of me. Not even Moriarty could send you to the hospital - “

“To be fair, that was my own doing - “

“No, stop. Just stop it. Stop blaming yourself. I was wrong. Mary’s death was _never_ your fault. But when she died, I pinned all my guilt on you and - I am so sorry.”

“Guilt?” Sherlock asked softly.

_He still doesn’t know,_ John thought. Maybe it had something to do with their utter isolation, or the fact that Sherlock’s face was so close to his that he could almost count his eyelashes - but suddenly he needed Sherlock to _know_ how much he regretted it. Sherlock needed to know how much John cared about him, that he had spent almost every waking moment of the past few years loving him. Just for a moment, he didn’t care about the fact that this would change everything.

“Yes, guilt.” he said, and brushed his lips against Sherlock’s, the momentary contact somehow enough to set his nerves aflame. He pulled away to see Sherlock looking utterly devastated, a mixture of shock and uncertainty on his face.

_“Oh.”_

“I told you. Because I wanted more, and I still do.”

“I - _oh_.”

“I would rather go back to Afghanistan than hurt a hair on your head _ever_ again. Forgive me, Sherlock, please.”

In answer, Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s and kissed him.

* * *

So this was it.

_Kissing John Watson._

The stars didn’t explode, the earth didn’t break open, but time seemed to stop. In that moment, Sherlock didn’t care about the Golem or Eurus or even Moriarty - all that mattered was that John Watson was here, and he was kissing him, and John was kissing back. Sherlock had dreamed up various variants of John’s lips over the years, but nothing even came close to the real thing. _Soft, slightly chapped, shea butter balm,_ he stored.

But what awed him the most was that it was John who was with him right now, steady, warm John. John who softly nipped his lower lip and lightly trailed a finger down his cheek. It was a completely chaste kiss, but he hadn’t been kissed this tenderly by anyone in years, and certainly not when it mattered.

John drew away, looking a lot more composed than Sherlock currently felt. “Does this mean you forgive me, then?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Make a deduction.”

He was glad for the moonlight and the way it illuminated John’s face - his blonde hair, his sparkling eyes, the small smile as Sherlock tentatively reached out to touch his face. He grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s shirt - but softly, gently, like he had all the time in the world - and pulled him down for another kiss.

* * *

The next morning, John woke up to find himself alone in the tent. Sherlock’s sleeping bag hadn’t even been unrolled. He stretched, and the events of the previous night came back to him - kissing Sherlock. Sherlock kissing back. More kissing and staring, until John had finally giggled, pulled away and said he needed to sleep.

_What am I doing?_ he thought now. _My wife hasn’t even been dead a year and I’m already kissing someone else. The man I’ve loved for years - but that doesn’t change anything…does it?_

_Where will Sherlock want to go from here? Where do I want to go from here? How will this even work?_

He found Sherlock sitting outside the tent, drinking tea from a thermos. He didn’t even look at John - just handed him the thermos. _Bad sign?_

“Did you sleep at all last night?” John asked.

“No, I kept watch. It was futile - no funny business around here. Shall we pack up?”

They packed, making idle chatter about sandwiches and binoculars. In the broad daylight, it almost seemed as if the previous night could’ve been a dream. John was half-inclined to believe that it was. Sherlock was his usual cranky self, until he let out a long sigh and stopped to survey John, cocking one eyebrow quizzically.

“If you want to pretend that nothing happened…” John started. He didn’t even know what to think. Sherlock liked him _romantically_ \- he’d always stopped himself from fantasizing about this, wanting to save himself the pain of knowing that it would never happen. As a result, he’d never actually _thought_ about what he would do in a situation like this.

Sherlock’s face was inscrutable. “No, I just thought that maybe you would need some...time.”

“Yes, I think that would be for the best.”

“Of course. Just so you know - I won’t change my mind about you. I can’t. So you take your time.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.” He turned away, but turned back almost instantly. There was no use hiding anything. It was too late - had been much too late for a while now. “For what’s it worth, neither can I. Especially not after yesterday.”

The hopeful glint in Sherlock’s eyes was the only reply he needed.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I fangirled so much while writing this :’)  
> So I was wondering if any of you would be interested in making some cover art for this fic. I can’t draw for the life of me, and I know there are some crazily talented artists out there. Fanart, edits, manips - anything works. I’d really appreciate it. If you can help, please message me on Tumblr (usuallynotusual) or Twitter (snowflake3799)


	16. Chapter 16

Over the next few days, Sherlock buried himself in his work. Everywhere John looked, he saw flashcards, files and post-its. Rosie wasn’t neglected - when John wasn’t home, Sherlock talked to her, as if her baby knowledge could shed some light on the mess. John hadn’t seen him this manic in a long time, and he was glad that Sherlock was somewhat returning to normal. He hadn’t been the same since they’d found out about Eurus.

Neither of them had alluded to their kiss in any way, shape or form - Sherlock choosing to give John his space and John taking it. They had settled back into their same easy routine, with perhaps a slight edge to it. John was glad. He wouldn’t want to rush and ruin this - whatever _this_ was.

Seated in his armchair by the fire, John observed Sherlock at work now. He was sitting cross legged on the floor, in a sea of yellow-coded files and post-its. He looked up, caught John’s eye, and gave him a small smile. This was new - Sherlock being freer with his smiles and glances.

_Tousled hair, wrinkled dressing gown, and he’s still as attractive as ever - god, I could write poetry about this man._

John’s thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock tearing up a post-it. He heaved an angry sigh and curled up into a ball on the floor, pouting like an obstinate child.

“Sherlock, you need to eat. You haven’t touched food since day before yesterday.”

“You’re not my mother.”

“No, but I am your doctor. Eat.”

“No.”

John could tell that Sherlock wasn’t going to budge this time. He would probably starve himself till he got some sudden ray of inspiration.

“All right, er, here’s an idea. So you’ve been looking into minute details of all the cases for the past few days - “

“Observant. What tipped you off? Was it the colour-coded pile of files?”

“ - maybe it would help if you looked at the bigger picture. Connect and compare the crimes by their broader similarities.”

“Oh, John, I’ve tried it all! If you would just let me have one cigarette -”

“Absolutely not. Look, you’ve often said that sometimes a fresh perspective helps you think things through - so let me read out my notes of the case, okay? Just the general outlines.”

“I don’t see how it would help, but by all means, go ahead.”

John retrieved his notebook and flipped through, then cleared his throat.

“Crime number one -”

“Oh, how very creative.”

“Sherlock, if you don’t shut up, I swear I’ll throw your mould cultures away. Right, then. Crime number one - victim: Yardley Oliver. A red 5 painted on the front door. Wife Susan died of cancer. Three weeks later, her reanimated corpse - _do you want to keep the mould?_ \- broke into the house and created a distraction. The Golem murdered his son, James Oliver. Led us to Irene Adler’s real identity.”

“Crime number two - victim: Upton Adams. A yellow 4 painted on the front door. Sister Bertha Adams died of a drug overdose. A week later, she visits Upton. Bertha was being blackmailed about her past, as was Mrs Hudson.”

“Crime number three - victim: Rachel Evans. A red 3 painted on the front door. Husband Fred Evans was murdered. A month later, his corpse visits the house, let in by the house help, Mark. Er, where did this lead us?”

Sherlock had uncurled himself now, and sat up with rapt interest on his face. “To _you_. Mark knew about Noel’s beating - he’s evidently a heavy drinker, probably had a drink too many and yelled about it at the pub. Someone heard him and decided to manipulate it as part of a bigger plan - oh, this is deeper than I imagined…”

“And that leads back to me, how?”

“The homophobic parent. I found out about _your_ parents. Then later, about Afghanistan - but how could anyone have known? You didn’t tell anyone - ah, you weren’t the only one captured, of course. Quite possibly someone used Noel’s depression to their advantage, knew sending him to the pool would affect him badly and you’d jump in to save him -”

“Slow down. So you’re telling me that someone’s intentionally trying to drag you into this? That the connection we’re looking for is that you’ve been investigating each of these cases?”

“It certainly feels like it. Each one of these cases has led back to someone who means something to me in whatever capacity.”

“I’m starting to see what you’re driving at.” John said. “The first one involved Irene Adler and a murder - to catch your attention. It set the trend so that you would surely turn up to all the other investigations. The second one led back to Mrs Hudson, the third one to me. This sort of thing, it needs resources and a large number of people - one person can’t do it on his or her own. Who would hatch such an elaborate plan and why?”

“Moriarty, of course.”

“He’s dead, and you dismantled his web.”

“Quite so. But I wasn’t entirely honest with you.” Sherlock said. “There was one strand I couldn’t quite catch. Sebastian Moran.”

“Who in hell’s name -”

“He was Moriarty’s right hand man. Shortly before Moriarty’s death, he just vanished. Oh, slippery as an eel, that man - I’ve never even come close to catching him. Ever since I came back to London, he’s probably been building up an empire somewhere else.”

“So that’s it, then? A new villain just drops out of nowhere?”

“Well, not quite. It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It’s only a far-flung theory of mine, since he’s most probably dead.”

“Most probably?”

“Yes, John, do try to keep up. He got into an altercation with a man in Switzerland and was shot fatally. It was caught on tape. Which is why I say _most probably_ \- a man as smart as Moran would never pick a fight in clear view of a camera, and he would certainly never lose.”

“So he’s after you now?”

“Who knows? Whoever this is, one thing is clear. They’re sending me a message.”

* * *

Next Sunday afternoon found John and Rosie having lunch at Harry’s. The last time this had happened had been a few days after Sherlock’s second death anniversary, when Harry had relapsed yet again.

“I won’t sit back and watch you throw your life away!” John had yelled.

“At least I’m living!” she snapped back. “You’ve barely even breathed since Sherlock Holmes died!”

Needless to say, it hadn’t ended well.

However, ever since witnessing the twisted Holmes sibling dynamics, he had decided that maybe his sister wasn’t so bad after all. It was hard to undo the rift that had sprung up between them after he left for the war, but he was trying to reach out to her. Now, the two of them could at least share a meal together without bickering.

Since Rosie’s birth, Harry had been trying hard, too - perhaps making up for lost time. She’d promised to stay clean so that she could help with Rosie, and John had a feeling she’d stick to her word this time. He had surreptitiously checked the kitchen cabinets, the trashcan, even peeked under her bad for any bottles or flasks. He’d come up with nothing except piles and piles of crumpled paper - some project she was working on for work (although he never quite understood how she managed to hold down her job).

“So you really are staying off this time, then?”

“Yes.” she said firmly. Then she sighed and looked down at her plate, suddenly guilty, and reached across the table to squeeze John’s hand. “I’m sorry I missed your wedding.”

John was a little taken aback. This was the warmest she’d been since - well, since she’d finalized her divorce and cried herself out on his shoulder.

“I just - I’d started drinking again, and I knew there was going to be an open bar, so I figured it was best if I didn’t go. Didn’t want to turn up and create a scene. I’m so sorry I missed your big day. I thought you’d be happier if I didn’t come.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re my sister, of course I wanted you at my wedding. It’s okay.” _At least you didn’t stick me in a crazy murder maze and try to drown my best friend,_ he wanted to add. “At least you came to the funeral.”

Harry gave him a strange look, and he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Right. Changing the topic completely…Harry, when did you realize that you’re gay?”

Harry stared at him for a second, and then to his immense surprise, she began giggling. He hadn’t seen her laugh this hard since they were kids. She laughed till there were tears in her eyes, and then she wiped them away and giggled some more.

“What’s so funny?”

“No, nothing, it’s just - this is about Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it?”

“Well...”

“Oh, I _knew_ it! Okay, sorry, I’ll calm down. What were you saying?”

“When did you realize that you’re a lesbian?”

“Well - I was attracted to girls back in high school, too, but I thought it was just a phase...or that’s what I forced myself to think. You know how dad was...anyway, in my last year of college, I met Clara, and things just changed. Or maybe things had been the way that they were for a long time and it took meeting Clara for me to accept them. Oh, I’m getting philosophical again. We were just roommates at first, but then I realized that whatever I felt for her was nowhere near platonic. Interesting parallel, isn’t it?”

“Stop teasing me.”

“Okay, okay. But you know the rest. I’ve told you my love story at least a million times. Now it’s your turn. Tell me yours.”

“There’s nothing to tell. We kissed, that’s all.”

Harry grinned and punched the air. “Sorry, sorry. Took you long enough.”

“That, and I’ve basically been pining over him since the day that I met him. So - Clara was your first girlfriend, right? But you two didn’t end well.”

“Yes, but that had nothing to do with her being my first girlfriend. Look, if you’re anxious that you and Sherlock Holmes won’t work out because he’s the first boy you’ve ever dated, don’t be. Clara and I - we got married too young. Our relationship was the normal, cliche puppy love - romantic dates, mundane everyday problems, etcetera, etcetera. You and Sherlock, on the other hand -”

“Yeah, ours is kind of like the you-saved-my-life-now-I’ll-save-yours kind. But we aren’t dating.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, surprised. “Oh - right. Your wife died a few months and no one, not even a hot gay detective, can distract you from that. Look, John - there’s no such thing as good and bad timing. Either you love someone or you don’t. Either you’ll fight for them or you won’t. You and Sherlock - and this is coming from someone who hasn’t even seen you two together - you’re soulmates. Take your time, but don’t let this chance slip away.”

John smiled wryly at her, suddenly glad that he had a sister.

* * *

_How’s Eurus? -SH_

_Petulant. Reluctant to take her meds. -MH_

_Maybe you should wean her off. She seemed fine when we visited her last week. -SH_

_She always acts fine around Mummy and Daddy. -MH_

_Did you have the staff replaced after what happened? -SH_

_Most of it. How was your camping trip? -MH_

_Fuck off. -SH_

Sherlock dropped his phone and leaned back in his chair, stretching listlessly. He watched John moving around the room, settling Rosie in her crib, picking up stray diapers and flashcards. John had come back from lunch with Harry decidedly relaxed - that was a good sign. A few months ago, he used to stomp around the flat for _hours_ after meeting her.

It had been over a week since that night at Stargrounds, and it hadn’t been an easy one. It was impossible to gauge what John was thinking - but so far, he hadn’t moved out and he hadn’t been behaving any differently, so that was good. Sherlock was used to hacking away at problems until he found a way to solve them, but he’d finally found one he couldn’t solve: John Watson. There was nothing to do but sit and wait.

 _You’ve known you were gay since before you knew what gay is,_ he reminded himself _. For John, it’s not just a matter of romance. It’s a matter of identity._

John looked up now and caught his eye. Oh, well. It was too late to look away.

“You’ve been on that thing for hours.” he said, gesturing to Sherlock’s laptop. “Trying to find Bertha and Upton Adams?”

“Yes. It’s no good.”

He slammed the laptop shut in frustration and rubbed his eyes. _Tea would be good._ He made to get out of the chair, but strong hands pushed him back.

“No.” John said firmly, from somewhere behind him. “Stay put. I’ll make you some tea in a while. You need to relax.”

And then John’s hands were on his shoulders, pressing and kneading, and he felt something unknot between them. He hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been holding in his body until now.

“ _Oh_. Were you ever a masseuse?”

“No, but I’m a doctor. I know the right spots.”

“Why have you never done this before?”

“I’m usually too busy yelling at you to stop shooting the wall. Good thing I confiscated the guns this time. Sherlock...I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

John’s hands pressed lower, on his shoulder blades, on his back, and he felt his face heat up. Even through the dressing gown, he could feel the warm softness of John’s hands. This was _good_. He prepared himself not to wince in case John accidentally touched one of the scars from Serbia, but he didn’t need to. John was as careful as he was skilled.

“We keep saying that someone’s trying to send us a message - with my cab accident and these break-ins. What if that’s true? What if it’s a _literal_ message?”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. He jumped out of the chair, already regretting the lost contact.

“Anagrams.” he said abruptly, then grabbed some of his files and spread them out on the ground and turned to John. “Get pen and paper.”

“What are we doing?”

“If what you’re saying is right, hidden somewhere in all that information is our message. We are going to crack this code.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have a week. Let’s see if you can find the anagram and unscramble it. Hint: all the data you need is in this chapter.  
> Also, Sebastian Moran is a character from Arthur Conan Doyle’s original Sherlock Holmes stories. He was one of Moriarty’s men and is described as "the second most dangerous man in London."


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock’s eyes were burning. Hunger gnawed away at his insides, and he almost repented skipping dinner. John had tried to force him to eat, but he didn’t want to stop working - not when he felt like he was finally on to something.

Together, John and Sherlock had tried every possible combination, unscrambled names, addresses, dates...nothing made sense. At some point, John had gotten up to check on Rosie, rejoined Sherlock on the floor, and then fallen asleep himself. He woke up now, looking disoriented and bleary. Sherlock snapped his eyes away. He didn’t want John to think that he had watched him sleep.

“Did you figure it out?” John asked sleepily.

“Not yet.”

“Hm.” John pulled a few of Sherlock’s sheets towards himself. “Have you tried the initials?”

Sherlock snatched the sheet out of John’s hand and started scribbling.

_**J** ames **O** liver  
_ _ **B** ertha **A** dams  
_ __ **F** rank **E** vans

Sherlock frowned at it. “J O B A F E - doesn’t make any sense. I could rearrange it, but - no. Didn’t think so, Bertha wasn’t murdered... let’s try the names from the nameplates.”

John had already drawn up the list.

_**Y** ardley **O** liver  
_ _ **U** pton **A** dams  
_ __ **R** achel **E** vans

“Y O U A R E - wow, we don’t even have to rearrange this - ” John said, “You are - what? What are we?”

“You, John Watson, are silver.” he whispered.

“What?”

“You’re the best conductor of light!” Sherlock declared, flouncing around the room. “Finally, _finally_ something to work on!”

“Okay, but what does this actually tell us?”

“That we’re on the right track. Someone’s targeting us. The next two break-ins will complete this message.”

John looked down at the sheet of paper. There was a prickly feeling at the back of his throat, but he swallowed his doubts and moved on.

* * *

The living room was a perfect mess. The papers and files from the previous night still lay scattered around the couch. Rosie’s toys and clothes were everywhere. John looked around at the chaos and huffed, exasperated. He almost wished that he had accompanied Sherlock on his revisit of the crime scenes, but he was far too tired from his day at the clinic.

Harry had picked Rosie up a while ago, so he now had the flat to himself. He’d been looking forward to sitting down and sorting through his emotional baggage, but, well, he couldn’t do it with the flat so messy. He started cleaning up, mentally cursing Sherlock. _Does he live in the flat? Yes. Does he clean the flat? No._

He tripped over a small white shoe and started hunting for the other one. Rosie’s shoes had a knack for ending up in the most unexpected places - wedged under the fridge, underneath a sofa cushion, once even jammed up the fireplace. He sometimes had a feeling Sherlock hid them just to exasperate him. Well, _this_ shoe was nowhere to be found; he’d have to check Sherlock’s room.

Entering Sherlock’s room without him felt like a strange breach of privacy, although there were close to no personal effects in the room (and he slept there every night anyway). He bent down and fished around under the bed - _if he has anything to hide, he won’t be stupid enough to put it in such an obvious place_. He didn’t find the shoe, but his hand brushed against something papery. Against his better judgement, he pulled it out.

Instinctively, John knew the letter wasn’t meant for him. The envelope clearly said _Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street_. And yet he couldn’t stop his hand from trembling as he pulled out the letter, for the handwriting - it was Mary’s.

_**Sherlock,** _

_**If you’re reading this, I hope you got my CD. I hope you saved John Watson. I know you have questions, and I’m going to try and answer them to the best of my abilities.** _

_Why would Sherlock hide this from me?_

_**Where do I start? Well, just to clear this up: I am dead. No question about it.** _

He sat down heavily on the bed.

_**I am writing this letter because it’s only a matter of time before my past catches up with me. Ajay already found me once, in Morocco, and I’m taking it to be my final warning. My time is running out, and I want to be prepared for what comes.** _

_**I could write to John, but it would only upset him. He needs to move on. Of course, there is a possibility that I’ll be able to live out a normal life with him and Rosie, in which case this letter will be deemed useless.** _

His breath hitched.

_**For the world’s only consulting detective, you can be incredibly thick sometimes. I don’t know John Watson better than you do. I won’t even pretend to. But let me tell you this: the very moment that I saw you two together for the first time, I knew that he was gone. His heart was hopelessly sold on you, whether he acknowledged it or not.** _

_**He was still grieving when you came back, Sherlock. Two years and still breaking, but deep down, as if there were fissures in his foundation. From the very day you came back, there was a new spring in his step. It was like somebody had breathed the spirit of life back into him. That was when I realized that the John Watson I knew - he was a pale shadow of the real one. And I knew he’d never be the same without you.** _

He leaned his head against the wall.

_**In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have agreed to marry him. Don’t get me wrong - I love him, but more than that, I was bewitched by the idea of a settled life. A husband, a kid, a job that didn’t involve secrecy. He was supposed to be my one chance at normalcy - and to some extent, I was his.** _

_**This marriage isn’t working, I know that now. We both try, but we can’t pretend forever. It’s strange, really. They say that parenthood brings you together, but it’s driven us further apart. On that note, do look after Rosie. When she’s old enough, tell her about me.** _

He smiled, and some of the guilt that had been eating away at him dulled a little.

_**I know you two. And if I'm gone, I know what you could become, because I know who you really are. Last time, I told you to save John, and this time, I’m telling you to protect him. Guard his heart as your own, Sherlock. There is no man who deserves happiness and love more than him, and none who can give it to him more wholly than you.** _

_**This is my final gift to you. No more posthumous CDs and letters. This is where my involvement in your life ends.** _

_**Mary** _

John closed his eyes, and it was a long time before he opened them again.

* * *

_I’m at the church. We need to talk._

Sherlock didn’t need to ask which one. John wasn’t religious, and there was only one church that he frequented - the one where both Sherlock’s and Mary’s funerals had been held. He turned his coat collar up against the crisp night air. Sometimes, he felt like these dingy byways and labyrinth of inner alleys were the true heart of the city. This was where they lived - the misfits, the criminals, the rebels. _No time to muse on that now_ , he reminded himself, setting a brisk pace for the church.

Someone had lit all the candles, giving the church a soft glow. There was something solemn about the empty pews, the high windows, and the deserted room, and he tried to muffle his footsteps. He could see John sitting on one of the benches, staring down at a piece of paper. Even from here, Sherlock recognized it - Mary’s letter.

When he got it, he had thought about showing it to John, but something held him back. What if Mary was wrong and he ended up making a fool of himself? He’d hidden it under the bed because he knew John thought him too clever to choose such an obvious hiding place - or maybe he subconsciously wanted him to find it. _There are two possible outcomes to this situation,_ he thought -

  1. _He’s going to tip over the candles and set me on fire_
  2. _He wants to talk about emotions_



Sherlock wasn’t sure which option was worse.

He sat down next to John, who was still staring at the letter. Sherlock didn’t even need to read it again. He’d practically memorized it by now, rereading, hoping, wishing.

“So.” John finally said. He didn’t sound angry or disappointed, just sad. “She’s right. Everything - it’s the truth. I didn’t know that she knew.” His voice broke a little, and he finally looked up.

“Yes. I suppose that’s why she saved my life. We never did get along. We only pretended to, for your sake.”

John nodded a little and folded the letter, then reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. He hesitated for a moment, then interlaced their fingers. It felt like an eternity had passed before he finally spoke again.

“I did love Mary, and she’s the mother of my child.” he said softly. “There is a part of me that will always love her, Sherlock, and you’ve got to understand that.”

Sherlock nodded. _What’s coming?_ he thought. _Is this how he comforts people before he breaks them?_

“But I wasn’t in love with her, though I did think I was. It’s you. It’s always you.”

“Plagiarism.”

“Shut up. I’ve been in love with you for far longer than you can possibly imagine. When you came back, it drove me crazy - I couldn’t choose. You were as unattainable as ever -”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off.

“It’s true, what she writes - wrote - for both of us, this marriage was the life we thought we wanted. But I was wrong. After we got married, things were worse than ever, because that’s when I realized - I couldn’t fall in love with her. I didn’t want her or the feigned normalcy or the settled life I’d always craved. I wanted you, and I still do.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. John paused for a minute to stare at him, then took a deep breath and kept talking, as if he knew that if he stopped now, he might never be able to say everything he wanted to.

“When she shot you - that was the last straw. I knew in that moment that I could never be happy with her again. Even looking at her - all I saw was you, lying on the floor in a very scary pool of blood. I don’t think I would’ve stayed if she wasn’t pregnant. So, well - that’s how I ended up texting Eurus. I wanted to feel that emotional connection again with someone else, just to prove to myself that my feelings for you stemmed from an unhappy marriage and nothing else.”

“Obviously, it didn’t work. And when Mary died, I - god, I felt so guilty. Guilty that I’d spent the last few month pining after you instead of paying attention to my wife. Shutting you out was my way of punishing myself. I didn’t think it would matter to you.”

“And then I found out that you were on drugs again. I’ll admit, I was angry. Mary died to save your life, and you were ready to throw it away with both hands. Then you roped me along to help with Culverton, and for the first time in days, I felt like my old self. Then I just started feeling guilty again, because I was supposed to be sad about Mary. One afternoon with you was enough to dull the pain, and that just made me feel even worse.”

“In the morgue….everything just bubbled up and over the top. I blamed you for my guilt, for making me fall in love with you, and it was wrong, I was so wrong. I didn’t want to deal with my own feelings - it was easier to pin them on you. You made a vow, but so did I - only mine were wedding vows. I lost control, but I swear to you, it will never happen again. I’m talking to Ella, and I’m going to do everything I can. I will never hurt you again. Can you trust me?”

Sherlock finally managed to find his voice. “John, you know I’ve already forgiven you for that. As for trusting you - I’d trust you with my life. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re being too hard on yourself? Do keep in mind the fact that you never had a healthy outlet for your sorrow. Your therapist was Eurus, and we know she’s a master manipulator.”

John cocked his head to the side, something like relief washing over his face. “There is some logic to what you’re saying. Still, I take full credit for what happened. I can’t blame anyone else for this.”

“You’re not a monster.” Sherlock said softly.

John interrupted him again. The words were simply rushing out of him now, as if they had been caged away for years and were just now breaking through the bars. “You keep saying I’m abnormally attracted to dangerous situations, but I’m not just addicted to the danger. I’m hopelessly addicted to you, Sherlock. I mean, with you...I’d even be content living in a lonely cottage out in the middle of nowhere.”

“That sounds excruciatingly boring, but I do appreciate the sentiment.”

John smiled a little then, but it melted into a look of resignation. “You ‘appreciate the sentiment’? Is that all you have to say?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but his words froze somewhere in the back of his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, but he was completely overwhelmed by the fact that this was happening, actually happening, that John was saying everything he’d always wanted to hear. Part of him wanted to reach out and pinch himself just to confirm that he wasn’t dreaming.

John nodded. “So that kiss was just a kiss, then? If you didn’t feel the same way, Sherlock, you could’ve told me."

With that, he got up and walked away.

* * *

 


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock watched him go, his heart in his throat. This was all going wrong, and horribly so - John wasn’t supposed to leave. Heck, John _didn’t_ leave, not even when Sherlock drove him up the wall with his rudeness and his sulking. He could always be counted upon to be there in the morning, maybe grumpy but reliably, solidly _there_. They’d been given second chances, and thirds, and even fourths - and Sherlock realized that he couldn’t keep squandering them anymore. He got up and ran after John, catching up with him halfway down the aisle and spinning him around.

“No, John, please don’t go, I - “

John stood straight and tall, the letter from Mary crushed to his side, every bit the soldier, but Sherlock could see through it. The clenched jaw, the raised chin, the barely concealed emotion in his eyes - _how could I be so blind? How did I not see it all along?_

“Look, you don’t have to pressure yourself into this.” John said, his voice almost unnervingly steady. “It’s not your fault. This was a mistake - you’re married to your work, you told me that when we first met. We’ve been through worse. We can work through this.”

“John, you’re wrong. Again.”

“Snarky bastard.”

“No. Look at me.” Sherlock tilted John’s face up and met his eyes. “It’s you. It’s always you, John Watson. Didn’t you know?”

“How on earth am I supposed to know? I’m not you!”

“You’re not me, you’re _you_ , and I’ve wanted you for years.” Sherlock said, and there was a hint of desperation in his voice now. “I thought about you, constantly, whether you were with me or not. Even when I didn’t see you for two years, and after you got married - I never stopped loving you.” His voice cracked, and he felt a tear trace its way down his cheek. He wiped it away angrily. “See? Body betrays me.”

John was still staring at him, utterly taken aback. Finally, he sighed and reached out to wipe Sherlock’s tears with his thumb.

“Oh, Sherlock. You’re such an idiot.”

Offended, Sherlock opened his mouth to retaliate, but the next thing he knew, John had pulled him closer. For a moment, their eyes locked, and then John’s lips crashed onto his and everything was oblivion. He was vaguely aware of John’s hands on his waist, and he knew his were doing something similar, but for the most part, his attention was diverted by John’s mouth, soft and warm against his own, mixing with the salty taste of his tears. _That smell - he smells like me_ , he thought - but to his utter disappointment, John pulled away. Sherlock made an involuntary sound halfway between a whine and gasp. _How embarrassing_ , said the still-rational parts of his brain.

“Let’s go home.” John said. “We’ll talk. Okay?”

“Yes. But first - John, I -“ Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure how to phrase what he was thinking. “I want to do the thing with you. You know, when two people who like each other go out and have fun and do things together…”

“You mean dating? A relationship? You want me to be your boyfriend?”

Sherlock shrugged. He’d never quite understood the point of these labels - but then again, he’d never understood the concept of love and sentiment. Still, he had to admit that part of him liked knowing that John was _his_. It wouldn't hurt to have a valid reason to drive away all those women who kept flirting with John.

“Yes. That thing.” Sherlock said.

“You’ve never asked anyone out before, have you?"

“Well...not for me. Not when I really wanted it."

“That’s not a real answer.”

“Neither is yours.”

John laughed. “ _Dating_ Sherlock Holmes. It’s absurd. Yes, you bloody moron, absolutely. I’ll be your boyfriend - if you’ll be mine.”

“Good.” Sherlock said, not trusting his voice anymore. “That’s good.”

There was a John-shaped balloon of happiness in his chest, and he was afraid he might float away with it.

* * *

“She’s going to grow up before we even realise it.” John said wistfully, watching Rosie totter around the room. She’d taken her first steps the week before (“Oh, you’re home. Rosie walked today.” “I told you to call me when that happened, Sherlock!”) and was now taking every opportunity to explore the flat.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “ _Some_ babies never grow up.” He smiled down at Sherlock’s head in his lap and ruffled his hair affectionately.

Two weeks of being together, and the casual ease with which John touched him still surprised Sherlock. Sherlock loved it, of course, but he didn’t understand how John did it - every time he tried to touch John, his nerves turned to mush. Every fibre of his being longed to hold and be held, but he couldn’t shake the nagging doubts he’d fostered over the years. _How much is too much?_ he always found himself wondering. _When does my love turn into a chokehold?_

No such thoughts seemed to bother John.They hadn’t told anyone about them yet, save Mrs Hudson - things were too new and fragile and Sherlock had a gut feeling that John was trying to ease him into things slowly. Part of him knew that it wasn’t just for him; John was still trying to figure himself out.

They hadn’t seamlessly morphed into happy couple mode, of course. In the beginning, there was some awkwardness and hesitation, and always an element of partial disbelief. They’d gotten over it quickly, though, their happiness profound enough to override everything else. They were mostly unchanged in public, but while they were in the flat, John was more open than he had ever been. He’d casually put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, or hug his waist halfway through an experiment, or ruffle his hair in passing, or press a hand to the small of his back, or kiss him for no apparent reason.

And the hand-holding - Sherlock had never known that there were so many kinds. When they were chasing criminals, there was the steady, strong grasp. When either of them was tired or frustrated or sad, there was the soft, reassuring squeeze. When someone awoke from a nightmare, there was the desperate, white-knuckled clutch. When they felt an overwhelming surge of happiness, there was the finger-linking, like jigsaw pieces meant to fit together.

But his favourite by far was when John gently rubbed his hand with his thumb, because it meant that he would inevitably lean in for a kiss. In fact, he was doing it now - rubbing Sherlock’s hand and kissing his knuckles. Sherlock got up and pulled him closer, so far past caring if John thought him too needy. He captured John’s lips with his own, but John sighed breathily and pulled away.

“I’ve been meaning to ask - where did you learn how to kiss like that?” John asked.

“It comes up in casework more often than you’d think. People tend to let their guard down when they’re sexually manipulated.”

“So you just go around snogging your suspects?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The ones who are oriented towards men, yes. It’s a last resort strategy, but it’s surprisingly effective.”

“Huh.” John shifted to allow Sherlock to sit up properly. “I didn’t think that would be a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Even straight men have probably thought about kissing you at least once.” John said. “I mean, you’re gorgeous. All dark curls, sharp cheekbones, long limbs, the cupid’s bow - and not to mention those eyes.” He leaned forward to press a kiss to the point where Sherlock’s jawbone met his neck. “You have this ethereal beauty that just draws people in. I’ve spent so many hours just _looking_ at you...you have _no_ idea.”

“Whatever happened to ‘I am not gay?’” Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice steady, which wasn’t easy with John’s warm hands under his shirt.

“It still holds.” He moved up to kiss Sherlock’s cheekbones. “I’m not gay, I’m bi. Do your research.”

They were both so engrossed that they didn’t notice the door opening - Mrs Hudson came in and awwed, closely followed by Mycroft. He cleared his throat, causing them to spring apart.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Yes.” Sherlock snapped, pulling John to him again. “Go away.”

“Don’t be rude.” John scolded. “Come in, Mycroft.” He turned to Sherlock and lowered his voice. “Look, he just walked in on me licking your face. It’s a little transparent at this point. He deserves to know, and if you want to tell him - it’s fine by me.”

Mycroft lowered himself into the client chair (he’d learnt not to sit in John’s or Sherlock’s), and Rosie immediately ran to him, squealing. He sighed resignedly and hoisted her up.

“She seems to like me.” he said.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Sherlock said, “Maybe she’s just glad you haven’t hidden her in a mental asylum yet.”

Mycroft shot him a dirty look. “Let’s address the elephant in the room, shall we? You two - are you a - a _thing_?”

John snorted, and both of them looked at him, bewildered. “I’m sorry, it’s just...you Holmes brothers. Neither of you can say words like relationship, dating, couple or boyfriend out loud.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mycroft, we are...a _thing_.”

Just for a moment, there was a ghost of a smile on Mycroft’s lips, but it vanished as quickly as it had come. “Well, brother mine, I thought it was about time. Let’s move on, shall we? I am a busy man.”

“The Queen has a schedule.” Sherlock whispered, and John pinched his hand, trying to suppress his giggles.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, pulled out a small envelope and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock opened it and took out two black-and-white photographs - they showed a short, wiry man leaning against a wall, tensely scratching his chin with a gun. The print was hazy and the angle unhelpful, but the man’s facial features were just about distinguishable - his blonde hair, beard and sharp jawbone.

“Sebastian Moran.” Sherlock said, holding the photo up to the light.

“Indeed. These photos were taken in Poland a day ago.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be dead?” John asked.

“Those tapes were doctored. The man in them wasn’t Moran, just a lookalike.” Mycroft said, “Switzerland always was one of Moriarty’s - now Moran’s - strongholds. They had a government official slip in the tapes and pass them off as credible. A while ago, he cracked and confessed - of course, he was killed before we could take any further action.”

“So Moran knows that we know he’s alive.” Sherlock said. “This picture - he either actually is in Poland and was unaware of the surveillance camera -”

“- or he wants us to think he’s in Poland, when he could actually be anywhere.” John completed for him. “Basically, the only thing we know is that he’s alive.”

“An accurate summary.” Mycroft said. “I just thought it prudent to let you know, to - put you on your guard, so to speak. You can keep the photos. I’ll be on my way now.”

He got up and handed Rosie to John (“Unc! Bye!”), pausing to politely nod at Mrs Hudson on the stairs.

“Bless his soul, he’s trying to learn some manners.” she said, when he had left. “Oh, boys, what a terrible mess you’ve made! Here, let me just take these cups -”

The photos on the table caught her eye. She stared for a moment, then recognition and horror blanched her face, and she swooned. Sherlock and John caught her and lay her down on the sofa, bewildered.

“Tea?” Sherlock asked.

“No, she needs something stronger. Do we have any brandy?”

Sherlock left and returned with a glass. John put the glass to her lips and she spluttered, then sat back up.

“Really? Don’t you have anything stronger?” she asked. She looked at the photo again and swallowed. “Sebastian Moran.”

“You know him?”

She pursed her lips.

John and Sherlock shared a look, then John reached out and took her hand. “Mrs Hudson...you have to tell us what you know. People’s lives could depend on this information.”

She hesitated for a moment, but then sighed resignedly. “Oh, all right. Sit down, boys. First - I need you to promise me that what I tell you won’t leave this room.”

John and Sherlock shared another silent glance.

“We promise.” Sherlock finally said.

“Firstly, Moran’s a lot older than he looks.” she started. “What I’m about to tell you is practically ancient history - it happened back when Frank and I were still married, and he was running the drug cartel. There was a man - Frank’s rival - and Frank invited him over for tea, to discuss some business matters.”

“That’s strange.” John remarked. “Inviting your arch enemy over for a casual meal.”

“Not really.” said Sherlock. “The best battles can happen over tea. I’ve had Moriarty over for tea. Go on, Mrs Hudson.”

“So they had their tea, and halfway through it, I heard a mighty crash and came rushing in. Turns out Frank had poisoned his guest. He completely panicked - I suppose he hadn’t thought of the consequences of murder. It was a fairly transparent case, after all - anyone could’ve solved it and sent him to jail. At that time, in the province where we were living - no, I will not tell you the name - Moran was known for ‘handling’ small affairs like this. Frank contacted him, and he covered it up. The man who was killed - he’s deemed missing to this day. No one ever found out.”

“That’s what the letters blackmailed you about?” John asked.

“Yes.”

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts. “Rest assured, Mrs Hudson, no harm will come to you. Not on my watch. Even if this does come to light - there’s nothing to prove you knew about the murder.”

“Is he back?” she asked. “Moran? I thought he was dead.”

Sherlock looked at the photos, then back at her. “No.” he said firmly. “They’re old photos.”

She looked to John for confirmation, and he nodded. _No need to worry her further,_ he thought. But he knew Mrs Hudson was smart, a lot smarter than she let on; and when she left the room, there was no mistaking the tremor in her hands.

* * *

“Lestrade, it’s one o'clock in the morning. What do you want?”

“You’re the one who told me to call you as soon as - “

“- there was another break-in! Text me the address, I’ll be there.”

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chances of an update next week are pretty shaky. I’ve already written the next chapter, but it’s crucial plot-wise and I need to make sure I get it right. Also, I have two almost life-alteringly important exams on the 21st and the 27th. On the plus side, I’ll have absolutely nothing to do after that, so my update frequency should increase!


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock swung out of bed, all annoyance at being woken up gone, replaced by eagerness and something akin to excitement. He was already half-dressed when he remembered John, who was currently snoring somewhere in the tangle of sheets. For a moment, he considered leaving John be - Rosie was at Molly’s and this had to be the first time he was getting a good night’s sleep. But he knew John would hate him for leaving him out of the loop, so he gently prodded him.

“Wake up. We have a case.”

John slapped his hand away and turned over.  
  
“John, don’t be aggravating. Fine. Let’s do this the boring way.” He leaned down and pecked John on the cheek, but John simply swatted him away again. _Huh_. His kisses had never been met with _that_ reception before.  
  
He’d have to leave John here, then. He was just turning away to button his shirt when his phone moaned with a text from Irene Adler. John turned over, suddenly wide awake.  
  
“What the _hell_ was that?”  
  
“Get dressed, there’s been a break-in. The fourth one.”  
  
They both dressed quickly, left the flat and got into a cab.  
  
“Why do you still keep the ringtone?” John asked.  
  
“It gets you all hot and flustered.”  
  
“It does not!”  
  
“Yes, it does. No point denying your body’s natural stimuli, John.”  
  
“Where is she, anyway?”  
  
“Trying to get her old house back. She wants to stay in London until her father’s stable again, and probably after. Look, we’re here.”  
  
They pulled up outside a small suburban home milling with police officers.

“Nicholas Edmund.” John read off the nameplate. “So, ‘you are ne’ something.”  
  
“We can worry about that later.” Sherlock said, striding into the house. The door was open, and they could see Lestrade and Sally Donovan in the living room, overseeing the forensics team. The French window had been smashed in, and the floor was still littered with tiny shards of glass. The small backyard beyond looked like it had recently been dug up - there were mounds of mud and bags of fertilizer everywhere.  
  
“Nick’s dead daughter broke in an hour ago.” Lestrade informed them. “He’s upstairs and in no state to talk to anyone, but feel free to look around the house. Mycroft got you the required permission.”  
  
“Good.” Sherlock said, tearing off his scarf and handing it to John. “It’s quite stuffy in here. Couldn’t you tell the forensics team to clear out? They damage more than they uncover.”  
  
But Lestrade and Sally weren’t even listening - instead, they were staring at Sherlock’s neck.  
  
“Is that a _hickey_?” Lestrade asked slowly.  
  
_Oh. Oh no_ , Sherlock thought desperately, looking to John for help. To his astonishment, John was smirking.  
  
“You should see the rest of him.” John said smugly.  
  
“Are you two…?”  
  
“Yes.” said Sherlock, impatient to move on and examine the crime scene.  
  
“How long?”  
  
“Two weeks.”  
  
Donovan looked at Lestrade and smirked. “You owe me.”  
  
“You’ve been betting on this?” John asked, amused. Sherlock just sighed and dragged him away, unwilling to waste any more time. If they couldn’t talk to the victim, they might as well look around the house. It was the same as all the other crime scenes - no clues, apart from a yellow 2 on the main door.  
  
“Red, yellow, red, yellow…” Sherlock muttered. “It has to mean something. _Everything_ means something.”  
  
“What’ve you got?” Lestrade asked, striding over.  
  
“The same as ever.” Sherlock said. “Somebody pretending to be Nicholas’ daughter -”  
  
“Anna.”  
  
“Somebody pretending to be Anna broke in, gave him a scare and left. What’s wrong with the backyard?”  
  
“Nick said the gardener was redesigning it. You can go up and talk to him now, by the way.”  
  
John and Sherlock went up the stairs and paused outside the door. They knocked, and a tremulous voice invited them in. It took their eyes a while to adjust to the semi-darkness inside the room, but they could make out a middle-aged man sitting on the bed, wrapped in a blanket. He took a long, shaky drink of water, and raised his eyebrows at them.  
  
“Police?” he asked.  
  
“Sort of.” John said. “We have some questions, but if you’d rather not talk right now -”  
  
“Better in than out.” Sherlock interrupted. John huffed, but Sherlock ignored him. “Anna’s mother died in childbirth and you never remarried.”  
  
Nick looked at him in disbelief. “Who are you and how do you know that?”  
  
“The photos. There are some of you and your wife when you were younger, a few of her from when she was pregnant. But all the baby photos, and the ones after that - they only have you and Anna in them. All the frames, particularly your wife’s, have been religiously cleaned - you can’t bear to let go of the memory of her, and you’re perfectly content with that. What happened tonight?”  
  
“I was lying awake in this room when I heard a crash downstairs. So I just climbed halfway down the staircase and I - I saw Anna in the living room. I fainted, and when I came to, she was gone, so I called the police.”  
  
“How old was Anna when she died, and how did she die?”  
  
“Thirteen. She had been fighting Leukemia for over two years, and it finally took her three days ago. We haven’t even started organizing the funeral yet. She was - all I had left.” He was sobbing a little now. “I’d really like for you to leave me alone now.”  
  
John nodded. “Of course. We’re leaving now. You ought not to stay here tonight, what with the broken French window and everything.”  
  
They both turned to go, but John turned in the doorway, hesitant.  
  
“I’m sorry.” he finally said. Then he shook his head and followed Sherlock out.

* * *

  
On the cab ride back, neither of them spoke, too busy mulling over their own thoughts. John finally broke the silence.

  
“So - I thought the message would be something more elaborate. ‘You are ne-’ doesn’t sound very promising to me. I thought it’d be some sort of code, or just - something more concrete.”  
  
“That would be too much of a coincidence.” Sherlock told him. “The very people who led me to the secrets I’ve found also have names from which coded anagrams can be formed? Highly unlikely. The message was a side effect, so to speak. A touch of drama. Whoever’s behind this probably played around with permutations and combinations for quite a while before hitting on this particular sequence of crimes.”  
  
“You’re not telling the police about the message?” John asked.  
  
“No. It’s more personal.”  
  
“Sherlock.” John shifted closer to him, looking slightly uneasy. “The last time you decided your war with Moriarty was too personal led to you faking your own death. Don’t lock yourself away, please.”  
  
“I’m not locking myself away this time.” he said.  
  
“Then promise me that you’ll tell me _everything_ , no matter how dangerous you think it is.”  
  
“I must warn you, promises do not mean that I’m legally bound -”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“Alright, I promise.”  
  
John turned to face him, but Sherlock’s expression had shifted into something inscrutable and by no means reassuring.  


* * *

  
The next morning, at breakfast with Mrs Hudson, Sherlock’s phone moaned yet again. Mrs Hudson tutted and went off to fetch something from the kitchen. John raised his eyebrows, trying his best to keep a straight face.  
  
“What does she want now?” he asked, in what he hoped was a casual voice.  
  
“She keeps asking about her father’s case.”  
  
“Do you _really_ have to keep that ringtone?”  
  
“Oh, relax. She wasn’t the one whose tongue was in my mouth only an hour ago.”  
  
John couldn’t help but crack a smile. “But she _almost_ was.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, she wasn’t. Don’t you listen? It’s always been you. Also, Irene and I are both gay.” Before John could protest, he leaned forward and stopped his mouth with a kiss. I’ll get you something for your shoulder.”  
  
“How do you know - never mind.”  
  
Sherlock left the room, and John’s phone buzzed. His sister was calling him - feeling rather apprehensive, he hesitated, but then picked up.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
“Morning, John. Can I borrow Rosie for a few hours? I miss her.”  
  
He internally breathed a sigh of relief. Harry’s calls usually meant bad news. At least she hadn’t relapsed again.  
  
“Absolutely not. She just spent two nights straight at Molly’s, and I’m not letting her out of my sight for a while now.”  
  
“Fine. I’ll drop by and visit, then. So - did you do it?”  
  
“Do what?” John asked innocently, though he knew exactly what Harry was talking about.  
  
“You know. Talk to Sherlock Holmes. Snog him senseless. Spill out the innermost desires of your heart -“  
  
It occurred to John that Harry and Sherlock would get along spectacularly. They were both such drama queens.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Oh my. I didn’t get the wedding invitation.”  
  
“Harry, slow down.”  
  
“You still hung up on that first boyfriend stuff?”  
  
John craned his neck. He could see Sherlock in the kitchen, now talking to Mrs Hudson, probably trying to bully her into frying up a few eggs. It wasn’t like Sherlock didn’t know about Sholto, but John wasn’t about to go rubbing it in his face either.  
  
“He’s not my first.” he said, barely audible.  
  
For a while, there was silence on the other end. “Are you serious? You’ve had a proper boyfriend before? Not one of your college flings?”  
  
“Yes, and no, not one of my college flings.”  
  
“Then why did it take you so long to come to terms with your bisexuality?”  
  
“You know why.” John said pointedly. “I gave you away at your wedding, Harry. You know exactly why.”  
  
“Oh.” There was a pause. “Well. Who was this mystery man?”  
  
John hesitated. There were still years of bad blood between him and his sister, and he wasn’t exactly up for discussing Sholto with her (or anyone else, for that matter). Fortunately, someone knocked on the door, and with a hastily muttered “Later.” he hung up. He opened the door to find Molly Hooper on the doorstep, holding Rosie, who squealed and reached out for him.  
  
“There’s my baby girl - did you miss daddy? Hi, Molly, come on in.”  
  
“No, thanks. I should really get going soon.” Molly said, looking rather tired and fidgety.  
  
“I hope Rosie didn’t give you a hard time. Thank you so much for looking after her for two nights in a row.”  
  
“Not a problem.” she said. “It really seemed like you could use the rest.”  
  
“Well - I didn’t really end up getting it. I was out on a case with Sherlock pretty much half the night. Speaking of Sherlock - we, er - we’re kind of...” He felt a little awkward discussing this with Molly, considering how much time she’d spent pining after Sherlock.  
  
“I know. Greg texted me.” she said. “It’s alright. I’m getting over it. And I’m happy for you two.”  
  
“Wha - Greg only found out last night.”  
  
“I know, but Sherlock’s been so happy over the last two weeks. We all spent so much time puzzling over it that it was a relief to find out the reason. Better than wondering what new experiment he’s thinking up now.”  
  
“Oh.” John shifted uneasily. At least Molly was smiling now. “You sure you don’t wanna come in for that cup of tea? You look like you could use it.”  
  
“No, I’m late.” she said, smile dropping off her face again, replaced by the same worried look she’d worn earlier. Before John could say anything else, she waved goodbye and set off down the street.  
  
He stared after her, wondering what was wrong. She wasn’t immature enough to be upset about John and Sherlock...was she? He decided she was probably just stressed out about something else and closed the door.

* * *

  
“You Watsons have completely invaded my personal space.” Sherlock complained.  
  
They were on the couch, all three of them, Sherlock sitting with Rosie on his shoulders. John was sprawled out with his feet in Sherlock’s lap, alternating between staring at the TV and Rosie and Sherlock. _What a perfect way to end the day_ , he thought lazily.  
  
“Do you want us to leave?” he asked playfully, then saw the horrified look on Sherlock’s face and hastily backpedalled. “I’m only joking, love.”  
  
Sherlock relaxed and shot him a look. “You can call me that more often. Rosie, what are you trying to do?”  
  
“Hair.” she declared, hands bouncing through Sherlock’s curls.  
  
“Yes, I like playing with his hair too.” John said, then noticed Sherlock, who had gone completely rigid. “Sherlock? What’s wrong?”  
  
“Turn up the volume.” he said, staring straight ahead. John scrambled for the remote.  
  
“- identified as Nathan, Alex and Howard Garrideb. The bodies washed up on the shore a few hours ago. Investigations have been launched to ascertain the cause of death - ” the reporter said. Beside her were three blown up images of the Garrideb brothers.  
  
“My god.” John said softly. “I thought Mycroft -”  
  
“No doubt he’s taking care of it right now.” Sherlock said drily. “By tomorrow, all traces of this will disappear.”  
  
There was a cold, cut-off look on his face, a look which John had come to associate with bad moods and fits of sullen. Sherlock would want to be left alone now - at least for a little while. He plucked Rosie from Sherlock’s shoulders and took her to the bedroom.  
  
“Come on, let’s put you to bed.” he murmured.  
  
Rosie looked at him with her large, woebegone eyes. “Dadda?” she asked. It sometimes surprised John, how very perceptive she could be.  
  
“Don’t worry your little head about him.” he said.  
  
John rocked her to sleep, then took her back to her cot in the living room. Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa, limbs curled up tight now, the same stoic expression on his face. Although the newscaster had moved on to a different story, he was still staring at the TV.  
  
“Er - Sherlock? You alright?” John ventured.  
  
As expected, there was no reply.  
  
“I’ll be reading in the bedroom if you need me.” John said. Sherlock briefly nodded, and John left him alone.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, and thanks to everyone who wished me luck for my exams!


	20. Chapter 20

John woke up and blearily rubbed his eyes. It was clearly still the dead of night, and he was about to go back to sleep when he noticed Sherlock curled up on the far edge of the bed, still wrapped in his dressing gown.   
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock turned and blinked at him, and the stoic mask had disintegrated into something more vulnerable, a soft expression that made John’s heart ache.  
  
“You’ve got to be freezing. Come here.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“You can’t fool me.”  
  
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Sherlock said, but when John opened his arms, he didn’t hesitate to go into them. John brought one arm up around him and kissed his forehead, stroking soothing patterns into his back until he felt Sherlock relax a little. This was the drill. Wake up from a nightmare, comfort each other, go back to sleep. Except John wasn’t sure Sherlock had gone to sleep in the first place.  
  
“You can’t blame yourself for the Garrideb brothers’ deaths.” he said softly, pushing Sherlock’s curls back from his face.  
  
“Everything in there was about me.” Sherlock said, both annoyed and grateful that John could practically read his mind. “All those deaths - ”  
  
“No.” John said swiftly. “She’s the one who pulled the trigger, cut the rope, whatever. Not you.”  
  
“Yes, but if I had just - ”  
  
John stopped his lips with a kiss. “No buts.” he said firmly. “I don’t care how neglected or isolated she felt, and I won’t let her make you doubt yourself. You didn’t kill _anyone_.”  
  
“You’re right. Of course, you’re right, logically I didn’t. But Eurus - I promised her I’d bring her home. I went back on my word, didn’t I?”   
  
“You can’t possibly bring her home. She knows that, too. You’ve already seen what she can do. Er - ” John hesitated. “Can she really control minds? Reprogram people, as Mycroft keeps saying?”  
  
Sherlock scoffed derisively. “No. Mycroft just likes being overdramatic. She influences people to a very high extent, absolutely, but mind control? This is real life, not a science fiction movie.”  
  
“Then how did she - ”  
  
“I don’t know.” Sherlock said. He sat up, agitated, and pulled John’s blanket tightly around himself. “I don’t like not knowing.”  
  
“Maybe it’d help if you talked to her. I’ll come with you.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him, completely taken aback.  
  
“You’d come with me? But Sherrinford - the - you hate it.”  
  
“I know. But if you need me, I can put that aside.”  
  
“I don’t understand why you would do that.”  
  
“Don’t you?” John said, sitting up to face him. “It’s a funny little thing called sentiment.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Sherlock, it’s fine. You’re not supposed to thank me for stuff like this.”  
  
“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he asked, pulling John into a hug. John paused for a moment, surprised at the sudden show of affection, but then squeezed Sherlock so tightly that for a moment he almost couldn’t breathe.  
  
“Just - everything, Sherlock. You deserve to be loved. You are...hell, I don’t know, the best man I know. I should be asking myself what _I’ve_ done to deserve you.”  
  
“I love you.” Sherlock said.   
  
John pulled away, searching his eyes. “You’ve never said that before. It’s always ‘I’m in love with you’, or - ”  
  
“I know. It seemed like a good time to tell you.”  
  
“Oh.” John shifted closer. “Is it also a good time to do this?” He pressed a small, fleeting kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock smiled and shrugged.   
  
“It’s always a good time to do that.”  
  
“I love you too, Sherlock. I just wish I’d told you earlier. Then we wouldn’t have wasted so much time.”  
  
“Time is an illusion.” Sherlock said, trailing his fingers up John’s arm and leaning in for another kiss.   
  
“I don’t know.” John murmured against his mouth. “You’re so transient. Here one day, gone the next. Every moment with you could be the last.”   
  
“Then let’s make it count.”  
  
“Do you think it would be different?” John asked. “If I _had_ told you before you jumped?”  
  
Sherlock pulled away for a moment to consider this. If he had known John loved him, would he still have jumped? Absolutely; there was no question about it, not with John’s life on the line. But watching John’s world fall apart would’ve been twice as hard. On the other hand, if he had known that John cared that much, he might even have told him about the fake suicide plan. He would’ve stayed in touch, at least...  
  
“Why talk about what could’ve happened?” he finally said. “It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“Can I see your scars?”  
  
“W - what?” Sherlock asked, caught off guard. “You’ve already seen them.”  
  
“Look, when you’re shirtless, I can’t focus much on your scars. Let me see them. Please?”  
  
Sherlock hesitated, but turned around. He let John slide off his dressing gown and help him out of his shirt. Even in the dim moonlight, the marks on his back gleamed angry and red against his porcelain skin. After all these months, they barely even bothered him much anymore, but then he’d always had a high threshold for pain. He heard a sharp intake of breath, then John’s fingers ghosted over his scars, feather-light.   
  
“That’s a lot of scars.” John finally managed.   
  
“I know.”   
  
“How did you -” John started in an unsteady voice, “What was it like?”  
  
“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you must’ve been all alone for those two years. Nobody to watch your back and look out for you. Actually, never mind, I know you don’t really care for companionship - ”  
  
“You.” Sherlock said simply.   
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re right. I do hate to admit this, but I was desperately lonely. I spent most of my time keeping busy and trying not to get caught, but there were nights - I wished you were by my side. The temptation to send you a message was overwhelming, but I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case I...didn’t make it back home.”   
  
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso, leaning down to kiss his scars. “Go on.”  
  
“If I ever wavered in my resolve to catch Moriarty’s men, I only had to remember that while they lived, you were in danger. The idea kept me going. Knowing that somewhere, somehow, you were waiting. It’s foolish, I know - ”  
  
“It’s not.” John said swiftly. “Not even a little bit. Can you turn around?”

“John…”  
  
“I need to look at it.” he said firmly.  
  
Sherlock turned around, and John’s eyes fell instantly to the bullet mark smack in the middle of his chest.   
  
“I don’t know how you survived.” John said, voice faltering. “Not that I’m complaining, but technically...your heart should’ve stopped.”  
  
“It did.”   
  
“What?”  
  
“It stopped.” Sherlock said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The doctors told me later - it stopped, but it started again on its own...”  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“Fine. After she shot me, I was in my mind palace, and then I ended up in a padded cell with Moriarty, and I gave up, I let go. Until he said...he said that I was letting you down, that you were in danger. I couldn’t bear the thought, and I fought again, and I suppose that’s when my heart started up.”  
  
“So - so let me get this straight. You came back to life...for me?”  
  
“In a nutshell, yes.”  
  
“Oh. Oh my god, Sherlock.” John took his hand. “I - oh. Is that why you shot Magnussen?”  
  
“Yes. I wanted you to be happy, you wanted Mary to be safe...”  
  
“Before you got on the plane…” John closed his eyes, visibly more distressed. “That’s what you were going to tell me, isn’t it? You were going to tell me that you love me.”  
  
“I was.” Sherlock admitted. “But I realized I wouldn’t be doing either of us any favours, especially since I was going to my death - ”  
  
“You were going to _die_? I thought it was an undercover mission!” John said, practically tearing at his hair now.  
  
“That’s what you were supposed to think.”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” John asked.   
  
Sherlock looked at him, so utterly morose and bereft that John instantly pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around him tightly.   
  
“Sherlock?” he repeated, more gently. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
“Because...you chose her.”  
  
Their eyes met, and John saw in them all the hurt and emotions Sherlock had spent years concealing. He wasn’t the cold-hearted sociopath he pretended he was. Deep inside, he was just as broken and human as John was - he just did a much better job of hiding it. All the pain he must’ve gone through, the heartbreak, the isolation - John multiplied his own heartburn one, two, three times and knew it was still just a fraction of everything Sherlock felt.   
  
“Look at me.” he said, reaching out to caress Sherlock’s cheek. “I choose _you_. I will _always_ choose you. And if you doubt it, even for one second - I will spend my entire life proving it to you.”  
  
Sherlock scrutinized his face, as if searching for a lie, but John effortlessly closed the distance between them and kissed him. As he felt those deft fingers comb messily through his curls, he wondered how he’d lived without this for so long. Then he wondered if he could ever live without it again, which just made him kiss John even more hungrily. There was too much going through his brain, and he was convinced that if he opened his eyes, he’d see sparks.   
  
_Oh, what does it matter?_ he thought. _I can study him later. Make another bloody encyclopedia, if need be._  
  
“You just short-circuited my brain, but please continue.” he managed to say, before John pushed him back into the sheets and proceeded to snog him quite thoroughly. He moved his hand down to John’s chest and felt, to his disappointment, _cloth_. John broke away, and the gleam in his eyes sent a jolt of something inexplicable through Sherlock.   
  
“Clothing.” John said. “Unnecessary.”  
  
“Cumbersome.”  
  
“What do you say we get rid of it?”  
  
“I say that’s one of your better ideas.”  


* * *

  
John pushed a plate towards Sherlock.   
  
“Eat.” he said pointedly.  
  
“No.”  
  
“You’ve skipped every meal.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So I don’t want you to starve.”  
  
Sherlock just huffed, got up, and flopped down on the sofa. “I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.” he complained half-heartedly. “We don’t have adequate data for this crime.”  
  
John cocked his head and scrutinised him. It wasn’t like Sherlock to lie around and whine about not knowing enough. He usually just hounded Lestrade and everyone associated with the crime till he got what he wanted. But he’d been sulking all day, giving John weird, mooning glances from across the room.  
  
“Did I do something wrong last night?” John ventured. “I’m sorry if - ”  
  
Sherlock sighed irritably. “It’s not you.” he said grumpily. “It’s nothing. Can’t a man sulk in peace?”  
  
John held up his hands in mock surrender and retired to his armchair, too used to Sherlock’s erratic mood swings to bother worrying about them. He immersed himself in writing a new blog post about their latest case - the theft of some precious painting which had baffled Scotland Yard, while Sherlock took a mere two hours to deliver the thief and the painting in one neat package. He was halfway through it when Sherlock finally spoke again.  
  
“I’m not your first anything.” he said.  
  
“Sorry?” John asked.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated. “You really are painfully slow on the uptake. Am I your first boyfriend?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Am I the first person or even man you’ve fallen in love with?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Am I the first man you’ve had sex with?”  
  
“No. Wait, am I your first? Because it really didn’t seem like- ”  
  
“You’re not my first.” Sherlock interrupted. “But you are the first one it...meant something with. Any of it.”  
  
“So what’s this about, then?”  
  
“John, I’ve studied you. I’ve studied your habits when it comes to relationships.”  
  
“Are you sure?” John asked, moving over to sit beside him on the couch. “You couldn’t even remember my girlfriends’ names.”  
  
“Obviously not. Why bother with names? That’s useless information. The point I am trying to make is that you know things, whilst I am painfully inexperienced.”  
  
“So what? You’re a quick learner.”  
  
“But I have people to contend with.”  
  
“Don’t be silly. It’s not a competition. And I don’t care if you’re inexperienced - I like you the way you are.”   
  
“You do?”  
  
“I’m still living with you, aren’t I? Besides, nobody I’ve ever dated could possibly compare to you.”  
  
“What about Sholto?” Sherlock asked frostily. “Will he be attending your next wedding?”  
  
“If he’s up for it. If all goes well, I’m hoping you’ll be there too.”  
  
“As your best man again?”  
  
“No, Sherlock. As my groom.”  
  
Sherlock’s face lit up with a half-smile which sent a warm tingle through John, reaching right down to his toes. Now that he was thinking about spending the rest of his life with Sherlock, he realized he had never really seen it happening any other way. Even if Mary hadn’t died, they would’ve found their way back to each other. The distant future he pictured always culminated in them going off into the sunset together.  
  
“I could live with that idea.” Sherlock admitted, holding out his hand.  
  
“You are one insecure sociopath.” John commented, taking it and rubbing some feeling into his surprisingly icy fingers.  
  
“I’m not insecure. Just doubtful. I’m not the one who moved out and got married.”  
  
“Last I checked, you were the one who spent half the night and the entire morning draped around me, refusing to let me get out of bed in case I didn’t come back.”  
  
Sherlock looked mortified. “That’s nonsense. I don’t _cuddle_ or _cling_.”  
  
“Yes, you do, you bloody octopus. But I don’t mind.”  
  
“Take my phone out of my pocket, it’s ringing.”  
  
“You’re just looking for an excuse to have my hand down your pants.”  
  
“I won’t deny that. Oh, it’s Lestrade. Hello, Gerald.” Sherlock listened for a while, and then his face lit up with intense excitement. “Good. We’ll be right down.”  
  
“What’s happening?”  
  
“Nicholas just found a dead body in his backyard.”  


* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I spent FOREVER writing this chapter, and it somehow turned into 2300 words of pure fluff. Oh well, one can never have enough Johnlock fluff.   
> Happy Pride month! :D


	21. Chapter 21

Greg Lestrade watched his men examine the backyard, sifting through piles of dirt and uprooted plants. A few them dug around with spades, stopping every now and then to shake their heads at him.   
  
“It’s been smelling weird for a few days.” Nicholas informed him, wrapping his hands around a cup of tea. “At first I thought a cat had crawled in and died, but with everything strange that’s been happening, I thought it might be a good idea to tell you.”  
  
“Did the gardener notice anything?”  
  
“No. I sent him off the day she died, then packed up and went to my brother’s for a bit. I couldn’t…”  
  
Lestrade nodded in understanding. One of his men poked at a patch with his spade, raised his eyebrows and called the others over. Nicholas and Lestrade stepped closer to watch them dig. The stench intensified, and Lestrade was tempted to cover his nose with his shirt. To his horror, he could now see a human hand poking out of the dirt. Slowly, painfully, they unearthed an arm, a torso, a leg, a face, until an entire dead body could be hoisted out of the dirt and laid out on level ground.  
  
Nicholas gave a low groan of horror and stepped away. His grip on the cup loosened, and it fell to the ground. Hot tea scalded Lestrade’s shoes as he caught Nicholas before he could fall, mouth open in a silent scream.  
  
The decomposing body was unmistakably Nicholas’ daughter.  


* * *

  
“Dear God.” John muttered, bending over the stretcher. “This has to stop. They’ll be sending fingers in the mail next.”  
  
“That could be a substantial lead.” Sherlock commented.   
  
“No, that would be horrifying.” John said. “Okay - she’s been dead for about a week. Buried for, I’d say, not more than four days.”  
  
“So she was buried before the break-in. Lestrade, where was her body stored?”  
  
“St Bart’s morgue.”  
  
“And Nicholas hasn’t started planning the funeral yet?”  
  
“No, he hasn’t.”  
  
Sherlock nodded curtly and turned around, grabbing John’s arm and leading him to the gate. They hailed a cab, and Sherlock quickly directed the cabbie to St Bart’s.   
  
“We’re going to visit the morgue.” he said under his breath.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“They can’t just wheel a body out of the hospital, John. A morgue employee would have to sign some forms first, one copy of which would be kept in the morgue. In all probability, the forms would’ve been destroyed by now, but it’s worth a chance. It’s quite late, nobody will be there. We’ll just nip in and snoop around.”  
  
“You could ask Lestrade to look into that officially.”  
  
“It’ll take too long. If we don’t find anything today, that’s what I’ll do. Come along. Be quick, and don’t make too much noise.”  
  
They got out of the cab, Sherlock barely stopping to pay the driver, and shot off at a brisk walk through the solemn corridors of St Bart’s. To Sherlock’s relief, the morgue wing was practically deserted. The stark white light cast eerie shadows on the walls, and although dead bodies didn’t bother them by day, there was something distinctly unnerving about being so close to them now. Sherlock and John paused at the door to the morgue.  
  
“I thought I heard something.” John whispered. “Did you?”  
  
“Yes. Don’t worry about it. If we get caught, I’ll find an excuse.”  
  
“Like what?” John asked, stooping to pick the lock.  
  
“There’s a supply closet five paces down this hall.”   
  
“You know...it’s weird joking about stuff like that now that we’re actually a couple.”  
  
Sherlock leaned down to whisper in his ear, lips ghosting past his earlobe. “Who says I’m joking? If you can pick that lock quickly enough…”  
  
John nearly dropped his pin. Fortunately for him, the lock clicked open and they pushed through the door. He switched on the light, and Sherlock’s gaze settled on a chest of drawers.   
  
“Arranged by date, but not alphabetically.”  
  
“We haven’t even opened it yet.”  
  
Sherlock just shrugged, and they started sifting through the piles of forms from a few days ago.  
  
“Why don’t you just ask Molly for help?” John asked.  
  
“It would feel immoral, after everything that happened.”  
  
“Since when do you care about morality?”  
  
Sherlock bit his lip. “I don’t. But I’ve put her through enough, don’t you think?”  
  
“Again, love, that wasn’t your fault. It was Eurus.”  
  
“I know. It’s just - I thought I really didn’t have a choice. And then Molly made me say it right in front of you, and that was even worse, and I -”  
  
Sherlock paused, and John turned to face him, cocking an eyebrow questioningly. Sherlock took a deep breath and started again.  
  
“The first time that I said it...I wanted it to be real. And I wanted it to be you.”  
  
He made eye contact with John for a moment, then quickly looked away, fumbling through the forms. _You’ve said too much_ , his brain said, but then John wrapped his arms around his waist and kissed the back of his neck, and he relaxed again.  
  
“Is that the only part of me you can reach without standing on tiptoe?” he asked.  
  
“I love you too, you stupid git.” John said, releasing him and turning back to the forms. They sorted in silence for a while, but it was boring work, and it wasn’t long before John spoke again.  
  
“Molly wasn’t too surprised when I told her about us. I mean, Lestrade told her a few hours before I did, but I didn’t expect her to be so...together. She was very mature about it.”  
  
“Yes, she’s always known how I feel about you.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“I accidentally showed her a picture of the Vitruvian Man with your face stuck on it.”  
  
“The Vitruvian Man...the Ideal Man.” John smiled. “You really are something else. Okay, I’m tired of this - they clearly destroyed the form. Shall we leave?”  
  
“No, I’ve got it.” Sherlock said quietly.   
  
John peered at the form, skimming over the customary details - name, date of discharge, cause of death...everything was consistent with what they’d found so far.   
  
At the bottom of the form was the unmistakable scrawl of Molly Hooper.  
  
Their heads whipped up at the sound of footsteps. John made to hide, but Sherlock grabbed his arm to stop him, mouth set in a firm line. John looked at him questioningly, but he just put a finger to his lips, eyes fixed on the door. The footsteps paused for a moment, then picked up speed, and Molly ran in. When she caught sight of them, her face paled.   
  
“I locked this room. What are you two doing here?”   
  
“What are _you_ doing here?”  
  
“I work here.”  
  
“What is this, Molly?” Sherlock asked, holding up the form.  
  
Molly took it from him, speechless. “It can’t be. I destroyed this.”  
  
“Then clearly someone took a copy and planted it here for our benefit. Why did you sign this sheet?”   
  
“That’s not my signature.” she said, but Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
“Molly, don’t lie, you are mediocre at it.” he said. “This is your signature, and when you signed this, you knew full well the body wasn’t going to a funeral home."  
  
Her lip trembled, and she took a deep breath. “It’s no use, is it? You’re going to squeeze it out of me anyway.”   
  
“Yes, so could you cut to the chase and save us some time?” Sherlock asked coldly.  
  
She turned to John. “Do you remember dropping Rosie off at my house a few days ago?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“So - it was midnight, and I couldn’t sleep. The doorbell rang. Rosie was asleep, so I left her alone in my bedroom for a moment, just to go answer the door. When I came back, she wasn’t there anymore.”  
  
John grabbed the countertop for support and took deep, steadying breaths. “You - you _lost_ my daughter?”  
  
Molly looked aghast. “I’m sorry, John. I left her alone for a _minute_. There was nobody at the door, so I looked around a little. When I came back, I thought she had just woken up and wandered off. I searched the entire house, but I couldn’t find her. What I did find was a note, telling me to go to the morgue if I wanted to find her, and tell nobody.”

Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation. “‘Tell nobody’ means tell Sherlock Holmes! Always tell Sherlock Holmes! When will people understand this?”

“So you went to the morgue.” John prompted.  
  
“So I went to the morgue, but everything was dark and silent, until these two men stepped out of the shadows. I couldn’t even see their faces - it was too dark and they were covered. Both of them were armed, and one of them had Rosie. They’d drugged her.”  
  
“They _drugged_ my daughter? Why, those little -”  
  
“Hush, John.” Sherlock said, then turned to Molly. “I assume they asked you to sign those forms and release the body in exchange for Rosie.”

“Yes.” she said. “They held a gun to her head - and mine - and made me sign them. I’m sorry. There was nothing else I could do. It was a choice between a stranger’s dead body and Rosie’s life. The same way you had to choose between a false love confession and my life. I’m sorry I blamed you for that. You were right. There’s really no choice there.”  
  
They stood in silence, Molly looking at them pleadingly, Sherlock staring at John, John staring at the form. John finally broke the silence, and he sounded surprisingly calm when he spoke.   
  
“Look, Molly, while I understand that this put you in a difficult position...you should’ve told us. This involved my daughter getting kidnapped and drugged. You saw me two days after this. How could you not tell me?”  
  
“They told me not to.” Molly said in a small voice. “I’m not like you two. I’m not used to dealing with a situation like this. I really am sorry.”  
  
“Just promise me you’ll tell us in the future.” John said.  
  
“I will.”  
  
Sherlock asked her a few customary questions about the time of the kidnapping, what the men looked like and other such details, and then they both turned to go, leaving Molly to lock up. John stumbled along, not really paying attention to anything in his path. The warm feeling from a few minutes ago had fled, leaving only a cold, dull sense of fear in its wake. When they stepped out into the moonlight, he grabbed Sherlock’s arm and turned him around.  
  
“We have to stop this.” he said. “Anything could’ve happened to Rosie. Please, tell me you know what to do, because I’m out of my depth here.”  
  
Sherlock just nodded curtly, shook off John’s hand and hailed a cab. The ride back home was eerily silent. Sherlock simply ignored John’s attempts at conversation, not even looking at him, gaze fixed on the window. When they pulled up at Baker Street, he stormed out and was halfway up the stairs by the time John had paid the cabbie. John made towards Mrs Hudson’s room to pick up Rosie, but Sherlock called to him from the stairs.  
  
“Stop.” he said. “Just come upstairs. I need to talk to you alone.”   
  
John was starting to get distinctly worried now. This was typical post-case Sherlock behaviour, but there was something unnaturally hard in his voice. He followed Sherlock into their flat, and was positive he saw him square his shoulders before he turned around.  
  
“You and Rosie need to leave.” he said tonelessly, his face a mask.  
  
“Wha - why?”  
  
“You can’t stay here anymore.”  
  
“Sherlock.” John’s head was spinning. “Sherlock, wait. Did I do something wrong?”  
  
“Please leave.”  
  
_I should’ve seen this coming_ , John thought. _Was I really naive enough to believe that I meant this much to Sherlock Holmes?_   
  
“Well, where the hell do you expect me to go? I’ve already sold my house.”  
  
“Go to Harry’s for the night and come back to take your things tomorrow. I’ll be out. I’m sure Mrs Hudson can somehow adjust this month’s rent.”   
  
“So - what about us? Everything that we’ve been through, and the last three weeks...does all of that mean nothing to you?”  
  
For a brisk moment, something flitted across Sherlock’s face. Pain. “It means the world to me, John, which is why I need you to leave. Get away from Baker Street and far, far away from me, do you understand?”  
  
“No.” John said stoutly, “I don’t understand. You - you can’t just tell me to leave. We’re a couple! We stay, we talk!”  
  
“Well, I’m a lousy boyfriend.” he said, then turned on his heel and stalked off to his room. John followed him, determined not to leave without finding out why.   
  
“No, you’re not! Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes! Come back here. Don’t you dare slam the door in my face!”   
  
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock said, turning around in the doorway and drawing himself up to his full height. “Will you stop following me around like some sort of half-witted dog?”  
  
He regretted the words as soon as he said them, but they had the desired effect. John flinched and stepped back, and Sherlock was tempted to reach out and apologize, but he had to hold his ground. He couldn’t give in to emotions right now.  
  
“John, I’ve made a terrible mistake. Mycroft was right. Caring is not an advantage.” he said monotonically. John wouldn’t fall for it, but it was the only thing he could think of.  
  
“No. Jesus.” John ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, letting some of the anger and hurt slip into his voice. “I _know_ you, and I _know_ you don’t think that’s true, not one bit. Just - tell me what I did, and I’ll fix it, I swear.”   
  
Sherlock had expected him to storm out in a temper, not to stay and fight for him. For a moment, his resolve weakened, and he wondered if he could really give up the best thing that had ever happened to him. But then he thought of Rosie, drugged and kidnapped, and John in a hospital room with a scar on his forehead, and swallowed.  
  
_I wonder if hearts make a sound when they break,_ he thought _. I suppose I’m about to find out._  
  
So he did the only logical thing: he turned around, slammed the door, and locked himself inside his room.  


* * *

 


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock cautiously walked to the door and paused for a minute, listening. John had stayed outside for a while, sometimes banging on the door and yelling, sometimes knocking and pleading (Sherlock could only guess how much that last one had hurt his pride). He’d tried to distract himself by updating his ash index, but he’d invariably ended up reading John’s blog, at which point he slammed the laptop shut and resigned himself to curling up in a ball. John had eventually stopped knocking and walked away, and Sherlock had heard him go downstairs. He might have heard the front door open, but he couldn’t be sure.  
  
He unlocked his door and peeked out. The kitchen was empty, the flat oppressively silent, and he was forcibly reminded of John’s wedding and the loneliness it had entailed.  
  
_Perhaps that was better,_ he thought. _At least John was happy. Now he’s sad and angry and I’m the reason for it._  
  
The thought made his gut twist painfully and he dropped into his armchair. He checked his phone to several texts from Mycroft, detailing the angry messages he’d received from John in the past hour. Sherlock couldn’t stop his mouth from lifting into a smile at the screenshots. John had used some very expressive phrases, including _moron_ and _heartless_ and _if you don’t tell Sherlock that you were bullshitting with that ‘caring is not an advantage’ stuff, I’ll break your umbrella._  
  
Apart from that, there were several missed calls from John and a text saying ‘call me’. For a few seconds, Sherlock’s fingers hovered over the keypad, and he tapped out ‘please come back’. There was a moment when he imagined pressing send, then John would come back and they’d hug and he’d explain everything.  
  
He erased the message and switched off his phone.  
  
_They’re just emotions. Chemicals in the brain which can be controlled if need be._  
  
But he’d studied enough chemistry and biology to know otherwise.  
  
He tuned his violin, but ended up playing such a mournful melody that he depressed himself further. Flinging it down on the armchair in disgust, he picked up a pile of post-its, intending to update his case notes. But his brain was too muddled, and even thinking about Rosie getting kidnapped was painful. He made himself some tea, then realized he’d made two cups out of habit. Slamming the cups down in frustration, he grudgingly admitted that he couldn’t tune his emotions out this time.  
  
_One day,_ he thought helplessly. _You get one day to wallow around like a lovesick fool._  
  
The lights seemed too bright, so he switched them off and curled up on the sofa. His arm brushed against something soft, warm and instantly recognizable, and he pulled it out with a sinking feeling. It was one of those ridiculous jumpers, the ones which John somehow managed to look endearing in. He ran his fingers over the knitting pattern and recognized it as the one John had worn to their first case. They’d both been so alone and averse to offers of help, but so entirely willing to throw their lot in with each other. He still didn’t know what had gone through his head when he saw John for the first time and decided, _that’s him, that’s my new flatmate_. He definitely hadn’t expected to find a companion, a friend, and a lover.  
  
_How could I have expected it? I make enemies on a daily basis. Nobody who comes in contact with me can possibly be safe. My love only endangers people and turns them into weapons - against myself._  
  
He hugged the jumper to his chest and wishing that he had had the foresight to store away just _one_ dose of morphine, resigned himself to a night of misery.

* * *

  
For the most part, single parenthood hadn’t been all that hard on John. Rosie had a lot of doting godparents and a loving aunt, all ready to take care of her at a moment’s notice. Once Sherlock got the hang of what he called the ‘baby business’, he had been a huge help. John hadn’t expected him to be so patient or so _good_ with Rosie. In fact, even saying he was a single parent felt immoral. Sherlock had been there all along.  
  
Sometimes, John thought about Mary’s death and felt strangely betrayed. _We were supposed to do this together_ , he thought bitterly, pacing up and down Mrs Hudson’s living room with Rosie in his arms. _She should be here, helping me decide how to deal with this._  
  
He couldn’t believe how close he’d come to losing Rosie, but it had convinced him of the seriousness of the situation they were dealing with. He’d learnt from experience that whenever someone targeted him or his family, it was usually an indication that they would stop at nothing to tear Sherlock down. Moriarty, Magnussen, Eurus...they’d all followed the same technique.  
  
There was a tight feeling in his chest, and try as he might, he couldn’t get the muscles in his arms to unclench. He didn’t believe Sherlock’s ‘caring is not an advantage’ excuse one bit. Still, it was probably a good thing that he’d left him alone for a bit, given him some space to think things through. All that remained was deciding where to go: outside to a different life, or upstairs to Sherlock.  
  
In the end, there really wasn’t any choice.

* * *

  
Sherlock had thought he would never be able to sleep again, but he drifted off eventually, only to be roused by a nightmare. He sat up with a sharp cry, automatically reaching out for John, but there was no one to comfort him - only the dark, oppressive stillness of the night. He took a deep breath, willing his heart rate to come back to normal.  
  
_You can handle this, as you did for years before you met him._  
  
He curled up on the sofa again, sore and uncomfortable, but unwilling to sleep on the lonely bed. There was something strangely suffocating about the darkness and the silence in the flat. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was making a colossal mistake, and stretched out his hand. He picked up his phone and switched it on.  
  
_Weak_.  
  
He stopped himself at the last minute and flung it across the room instead. It hit the wall and bounced off, upsetting one of Rosie’s block towers. He heard the screen break with a satisfying _crack._  
  
_There. This way you won’t even be tempted._  
  
He turned away and buried his face in the jumper, lulled by the comforting mixture of smells which were so uniquely John. He spent the night in some dreamland between slumber and wakefulness. By the time the first rays of dawn penetrated the room, he had given up on getting any sleep. He sat up and suddenly froze, for he had heard footsteps on the stairs, and then the door creaked open.  
  
John peeked in, and as on every other morning, his hair was a perfect rat’s nest. He caught Sherlock looking and nervously tried to flatten it, and Sherlock was forcibly reminded of a conversation they’d had many mornings ago.  
  
_How do your curls always stay in place? I could use an entire bottle of product and my hair would still be like...this._  
  
_Your hair’s perfect, John. In any case, it doesn’t matter, you don’t have many years of a full head of hair left. Your natural process of ageing will be faster than most, thanks to stress and PTSD. Your joints, too -_  
  
_So you’ll still love me when I’m bald?_  
  
_I hope you’ll stay with me for long enough to find out._  
  
He caught John’s eye for a long, painful moment, then blinked and got up. “You can pack your things. I’m heading out. I won’t be in your way.”  
  
John crossed the room and took his hand.  
  
“Sherlock, please just talk to me. After this - if you still want me to leave, I’ll go. I won’t bother you again, if that’s what you want.”  
  
“That _is_ what I want. Nothing you say can change my mind.”  
  
John kissed each of his hands by turn, not letting go of them even when Sherlock tried to pull away. “Let me try.”  
  
Sherlock felt something inside his chest melt.  
  
_It can’t hurt to hear him out, can it? He deserves closure._  
  
He shrugged and led John to the kitchen table. Deciding it was probably best to keep maximum distance between them, he sat across from John, folding his legs resolutely under the chair. It wouldn’t do for them to start playing footsie.  
  
“I thought you’d be gone by now.” he said, trying to keep his voice even.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I told you. I’m a machine. I don’t feel.”  
  
“I’m not falling for that again, love. I’m not leaving until I know the real reason why.”  
  
Sherlock saw the resolute look in John’s eyes and knew that he meant it. “Then deduce me, Doctor Watson. I’m sure you’ve learnt _something_  over all these years.”  
  
John studied him, and for a moment, his sadness was replaced by the ghost of a smile.  
  
“You didn’t sleep last night.” he said. “Which means you aren’t happy about me leaving.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“You think Rosie getting kidnapped was your fault, and you want me to take her someplace safe.”  
  
Sherlock wanted to deny it. He wanted to lie and tell John that he really didn’t care about him, because that would surely get him to leave and then he would finally be safe. But then John leaned across the table and took his hand, and he felt his resolve dissolve.  
  
“Not just Rosie. You, too.” Sherlock said, “Over the last few years, I have seen you wrapped in Semtex, targeted by Moriarty, set on fire, tranquilized by my sister, and chained to the bottom of a rapidly filling well. That’s without even counting the car accident and everything that’s happened since then.”  
  
“So you still think the car accident wasn’t an isolated incident?” John asked, suddenly curious, but then shook his head. “No, wait, not important right now. The point is - you once said ‘alone is what I have. Alone protects me.’ You lied. Alone doesn’t protect you, it protects other people. ”  
  
Sherlock felt his face colour, but he knew there was no turning back now. “Am I really that easy to read?”  
  
“No.” John admitted. “At first, I thought I had messed up, or you were tired of the whole relationship thing. You see, I didn’t...I didn’t think you cared about me enough to want to protect me.”  
  
“John, that’s a truly ridiculous thought to have.”  
  
“Yes, well, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship.”  
  
Neither of them could help but smile.  
  
“The thing is, Sherlock - you’re right. I don’t care how much danger I’m in, you know that, but I can’t say the same for Rosie.”  
  
Sherlock looked down at their joined hands. He didn’t have the willpower to take his away. _This could well be the last time I get to do this._  
  
“Let’s face it.” John continued, “I’m already a marked man. Even if I move away and cut off all contact, it won’t save me from being used against you. Everybody knows how much we mean to each other. There’s no getting around that.”  
  
“But Rosie - ”  
  
“Rosie won’t be better off.” John interrupted. “Mary made enemies, too. Lots of them. This, right here, with both of us - this is the safest my daughter will ever be. She’s not just my daughter, you know - she’s our daughter. She needs you. She needs both her fathers to look after her. We haven’t done a great job recently, but for her sake, I’d be willing to try again.”  
  
Sherlock looked back up, disbelieving. His throat was dry and his eyes suspiciously glassy. “But - are you sure about this?”  
  
“I am. You aren’t.”  
  
“No, I’m not.” Sherlock admitted. “Are you really saying you want to stay with me?”  
  
“Of course I do. What’s bothering you?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. “Just a thought.”  
  
John raised an eyebrow at him, clearly not buying it. There was a long pause.  
  
“You already left once.” Sherlock finally said. “You left me in Culverton’s hospital, when you dropped off the walking cane. Granted, I had anticipated and even banked on the possibility - “  
  
“Sherlock.” John said, gripping his hand tightly to shut him up. “Stop. That had nothing to do with you being the prick that you always are. That was me, all me, and I was in a horrible state of mind. By the time I got home from the hospital, I’d really just had enough.”  
  
“Enough of what?”  
  
“Enough of myself and what I was doing to you.”  
  
“You haven’t done anything to me. Nothing bad, at least.”  
  
“Let’s see.” John said, taking his hand away and getting up to pace the room. “First, my wife shot and almost killed you. You killed Magnussen to save her, then almost got shipped off to god-knows-where. On top of that, I blamed you for her death, iced you out and then hit you. When I dropped off the walking cane, I decided not to see you again, because whatever I do - I just end up hurting you.”  
  
“I - I thought you were tired of me interfering in your life and smudging everything up.”  
  
“Well, the great Sherlock Holmes miscalculated. I left for your sake, not mine. I could never leave you of my own free will. _Never_.”  
  
It was Sherlock’s turn to get up and take John’s hands, massaging his fingers until they unclenched, squeezing them reassuringly. He didn’t know which one of them it was for.  
  
“Stay.” he said simply, then leaned forward to cup John’s face in his hands and kiss him. Something in his chest flitted back to its usual place, and his muscles didn’t feel quite so tight anymore. He paused to close the small pocket of space between their bodies, foreheads close enough for their eyelashes to brush.  
  
“Stay with me, John Watson.”  
  
John pulled Sherlock down by the collar and stretched up, almost on tiptoe. His lips ghosted past Sherlock’s mouth, the ridge of his nose, his cheekbones, finally coming to rest on his forehead.  
  
“Always.”

* * *

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry about the late update! It’s been a crazy couple of days, but I’m back now (hopefully)

It had been one month since that fateful day at the church; _one absolutely crazy month_ , John thought, pausing to bolt the door carefully behind him. He didn’t _do_ monthly anniversaries, but this felt worth remembering. He’d survived one month with a mad genius, and said genius had put up with him, too. He shifted his gift uneasily from hand to hand - a fresh set of glass slides and some test tubes. It seemed a pathetically small gesture, but he didn’t want to overwhelm Sherlock.

As he mounted the stairs, he sniffed the air uneasily. _Something’s wrong,_ he decided, running up and throwing the door open. Sure enough, there was a cooking pot on the stove, spewing smoke. He quickly put the lid on and turned off the stove, waiting for the flames to die down. Sherlock came out of the bedroom then, looking rather disoriented, holding a marker.

“Was something on fire?” he asked absentmindedly.

“Yes! Didn’t you put the sauce on?”

“What sauce?” Sherlock strode over to the stove. “Oh, _that_ one. I completely forgot about it - I was working. Sorry.”

He looked so genuinely mortified and guilty that John couldn’t even bring himself to be angry. “It’s fine. Where’s Rosie?”

“Coloring in our bedroom. I’m sorry about the fire.”

“It’s no big deal. I put it out before it could get worse, just - be careful in the future. ”

“No, you don’t understand.” Sherlock said, pouting in frustration. “You _always_ cook, so I thought I’d be nice and cook for you today, since it’s...you know…”

“Wow. I can’t believe you remember.”

“I know the knitting pattern of each of your jumpers by heart. I think I can remember a single date.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as he reached out to wrap his arms around John’s waist.

“Yes, of course. Just didn’t think you’d give up space in your precious mind palace for that.”

“Oh, there’s an entire attic dedicated to you.”

John pecked him on the cheek and held out his gift. “Did you know that you’re actually a hopeless romantic?”

“So I’ve heard. And I wouldn’t say hopeless.” Sherlock said, letting go of him to eagerly unwrap the equipment. “Ah, yes! I needed these. _Somebody_ swept the last ones off the table in a moment of passion.”

“You didn’t mind it so much back then. In fact, you seemed to enjoy it. If I recall correctly, your exact words were - ”

“Say we move on.” Sherlock said hastily.

"We should do something. Something special."

"Like what?" Sherlock asked, eyes gleaming.

"For starters, we could go on an actual date."

"Fair idea. I’ve just received some intelligence about that theft we were investigating yesterday. We'll have to head out and visit this pub - "

"I'm taking you out somewhere after that." John said firmly. "Just us, no cases, no suspects.”

“What about Rosie?”

“I’m not going to take my infant daughter to a pub! What kind of a father do you think I am?”

“The best kind.”

* * *

Although it was barely eight o’clock, the pub was fairly crowded. The music was loud, the kind of stuff John might have enjoyed in his uni days; but by now, he was too used to Sherlock’s dulcet violin. It seemed like a fairly innocuous place (or as innocuous as bars can get), and he couldn’t imagine what they’d possibly find here.

Sherlock placed a hand on the small of his back. “Make yourself comfortable.” he said, “I’ll just go finish what I came here to do.”

Before John could react, Sherlock had vanished into the crowd of people. He shrugged and made his way to the bar and got himself a drink. Somebody slid onto the stool next to him - a man with dark brown hair and a vaguely familiar face. He turned to look at him, confused for a moment, but then his expression cleared.

“Hey. You’re the one who worked with Sherlock Holmes on that Van Coon case, right?”

“Yea, that’s me. John Watson. And you are...Sebastian Wilkes?”

They shook hands, and John stared into his glass, not sure how to make conversation. The only thing he really remembered about Sebastian was that he was a pompous prick.

“Any idea how Sherlock’s doing now?” Sebastian asked. “I heard he died for a bit there. Couldn’t have been easy.”

John wasn’t sure if he was joking. “Er, yea, he’s fine -”

“So you two are still in touch? Hats off to you. He really is a bit of an asshole.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you know, he thinks he’s so smart, because he knows a bunch of tricks. Really, everyone _hates_ him. What’s that thing he calls himself - a ‘consulting detective’? It’s a load of crap he made up because he couldn’t get a job.”

John took deep, steadying breaths. People insulting Sherlock when he was rude to them was one thing, but unprovoked attacks like this made John’s blood boil. What he wouldn’t give to punch Sebastian right now, break that nose and ruin his overconfident face...but he’d promised both Ella and Sherlock - _no violence._

“I’ll have you know,” he finally said, “That that man, Sherlock Holmes, happens to be the best damn person I know. He’s also my boyfriend, so you can shove your unwanted opinion right up your -”

Sherlock materialized soundlessly at his shoulder. “Time to go, John. Oh, hello, Sebastian. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Sebastian blushed furiously, embarrassed, unable to make any sounds apart from a dry squeak.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Sherlock asked.

“Er - I come here on Friday nights.” he said meekly.

“Good for you. Come on, John, I’m positively starving.”

“Just a moment.” John said. He turned back to Sebastian and smiled, then raised his glass and splashed the contents at his face. Sebastian, sputtering and cursing, wiped his forehead on his coat sleeve, then gazed at it in horror.

“What the hell?” he asked angrily. “Do you know how much this suit costs?”

“No, and if you tell me, I won’t hesitate to empty another glass on it. Have a good night.” John said smugly, then followed Sherlock out into the street.

* * *

“Oh, confound these.” Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his chopsticks down on the table.

“So you accept it. You don’t know how to use chopsticks.”

“That kind of knowledge is hardly useful in my work.”

“Sure.”

Sherlock picked up a fork, defeated, and moodily stabbed his food. The cutlery squeaked against the plate, and the waiter gave him a sour look.

“You’re fretting.” John said. “Don’t fret.”

“I can’t not fret. There’s still so much that we don’t know. What about the colours? Why do they keep alternating between red and yellow? I doubt it’s for aesthetic value.”

John reached out and took his hand. “We are not made to know and understand everything.” he said softly. “You’re here with me, right now, at this restaurant with frankly mediocre food, and that is more than I could ever have hoped for. Let’s just try to enjoy this, yea?”

Sherlock nodded and took a sip of water, trying to force his brain to relax. They were at a Chinese restaurant opposite the Lucky Cat, a candle flickering between them. The table was small and cramped, which just made it all the more convenient for their feet to slot together under it. For years, they’d both tried to keep their legs tucked away (or at least John had) to avoid accidental touches. But now, John bumped his knee against Sherlock’s, who tried not to smile too widely. _More leg space and more John._

“That was a good thing you did back there.” Sherlock said.

“Drenching Sebastian Wilkes?”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t help it. He was trash-talking you.”

“I heard.” Sherlock said demurely. “And I saw you clench your fists and prepare to punch him, but you didn’t. You now only react with violence and anger to a fourth of the situations you did earlier; that’s good progress, John.”

“You heard him? Don’t take him seriously - ”

Sherlock snorted. “As if I’d care about what Sebastian Wilkes thinks. The only way those words could ever hurt me is if they were to come from you.”

“I would never even _think_ something like that about you.”

Sherlock just smiled. He’d long accepted how much sway John held over him, and at the same time trusted him not to misuse it. But he pushed the thought to the back of his mind, deciding to focus on being here instead of thinking too much.

“Hey, Sherlock...do you have a plan?”

“I thought you wanted me to stop thinking about that. Well, since you brought it up, the plan is to continue digging around in the Edmund family’s - “

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant for the future.” John seemed hesitant to bring the topic up, as if afraid of what answer he might get. “You’re eventually going to get too old to run about solving crimes and handling clients all day. Or do you plan on being a consulting detective till you’re grey and old? Because I can see you doing that too, to be quite honest.”

“Are you asking me when I’m going to retire?”

“Yes. And what you’re going to do after that. If you’ve thought that far ahead, that is, because if you haven’t then that’s totally - you know. It’s all fine.”

“Well, I don’t have a very concrete plan - but one day, I’m going to move to Sussex. I’ve already started saving up for a down payment on a cottage there. I’ll still solve the occasional murder, but other than that - they have bee farms.”

“Bee farms.”

“Yes. To make honey.”

“I know what bees do.”

“Good.”

There was a loaded silence, and Sherlock swirled the water in his glass, trying to collect his thoughts. He _had_ thought about it quite extensively - what he’d like to do if he ever wearied of solving crimes. Up until now, John had never been a prominent feature in his plans, because he was married to Mary and living his own life with her. Obviously, things were different now.

“Rosie’s going to need a bigger place to grow up in.” Sherlock ventured tentatively.

John looked up from his plate. “I suppose.”

“And I’d be happy to lend her some space, if she wants it.”

“I’m sure she’ll be very glad to hear that.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “And, you know, if the bees don’t bother you - you could come too. Assuming we’re both still alive, of course, and on good terms with each -”

The remainder of his words were lost as John pulled him forward and kissed him, and the rest of the restaurant seemed to recede into the background. It wasn’t until John pulled away did Sherlock realize that he had knocked the candle over, setting the tablecloth on fire. He would’ve gladly burnt the entire place down if it meant he could prolong the moment just for a little while; there were at least six health violations in the kitchen, anyway.

The waiter gave them another sour look as he extinguished the fire, John apologizing profusely for the mess. They quickly paid for their meal, leaving a hefty tip to compensate for the tablecloth, and John pulled him out and into a cab. The entire ride back home was silent, both trying hard to keep their hands off each other, not wanting to make the cab driver uncomfortable. After what seemed like an eternity, they were back at their flat in Baker Street, standing in the doorway.

“Say it properly.” John said firmly.

“When we’re both old and cranky and want to get away from the filth of central London, I would love for you to move in with me.”

“And if the bees bother me?”

Sherlock hesitated.

“I’m _joking_ , you moron. I would never make you get rid of the bees.”

* * *

Five nights later, Sherlock woke up to his phone buzzing. He snatched it up, convinced that it would be Lestrade with news of the latest break-in, but it was only Mycroft. He just yawned and rejected the call, settling back into the sheets. Next to him, John stirred.

“Whazzat?” he asked sleepily.

“Mycroft. Go back to sleep.”

His phone buzzed again, and John cocked an eyebrow. “Could be important.”

Sherlock just shook his head and rejected the call again. John shrugged and closed his eyes; he had barely drifted off to sleep when _his_ phone rang.

“Hello? Mycroft, why the bloody hell are you calling me at 2 AM? Yea, you’ve already woken me up, so I don’t see why not. Here, Sherlock, talk to him or he’ll keep calling me.”

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

On hearing what he had to say, Sherlock went deathly quiet, the blood draining out of his face. John reached out to touch his arm, concerned, but he didn’t react. He lifted his chin and spoke into the phone almost mechanically.

“I’ll be there.”

He hung up and quickly slipped out of his bed, collecting the clothes strewn across the floor and hurrying into them, motioning to John to do the same.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” John asked, putting on his jumper inside-out in his hurry.

“The fifth crime.”

“So why is _Mycroft_ calling you?”

“It’s at Xavier Trevor’s. Victor Trevor’s father.”

* * *

 


	24. Chapter 24

John gripped the steering wheel tightly, glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. For some strange reason, he had rejected the car Mycroft had sent for them and decided to borrow Mrs Hudson’s Aston Martin instead. John, too concerned to bother arguing about it, wouldn’t let him drive. So there they were, speeding down a lonely road at three in the night in utter silence.

“‘You are next’. That’s our complete message. Should we be scared?” John asked.

Sherlock ignored him, still looking out of the window, so he just continued driving. They eventually pulled up next to a small cottage. John recognized Mycroft’s car parked outside, but there was a surprising absence of police cars. As expected, there was a big red 1 on the door, but he barely had time to process it before Sherlock flung the door open. The hall and living room were empty, but John could hear voices from the adjoining room. He reached out to knock, but Sherlock grabbed his arm.

“Can you stay out here?” Sherlock asked.

“Sure. You’ll be fine?”

“Yes.” He took a moment to compose himself. “There are some things that have to be done alone.”

John nodded and sat down on the sofa. Sherlock gave him a small smile, then gripped the door handle tightly, steeling himself. The voices in the bedroom ceased as soon as he entered. Mycroft was sitting next to the bed, an unmistakable edge to his usually bored expression. There was an empty wheelchair next to him. A woman Sherlock assumed was a nurse pottered about in the corner, mixing a concoction of some kind. An elderly man sat on the bed, twisting a piece of yarn around his fingers.

“Mr Trevor, you remember Sherlock, my brother.” Mycroft said.

Xavier Trevor clearly didn’t care for Mycroft’s politeness. He grew agitated, twisting the yarn around his fingers more tightly.

“Introductions can wait.” he said snappishly. “I want to know - have you found my son?”

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, confused. An almost undetectable shake of the head convinced him of it; Victor’s death was still a secret. He was still officially missing.

“Have we - no. Not yet.”

“Well, I’ll tell you something.” Xavier said, leaning forward dramatically. “I’ve found him. That’s right. I saw him tonight. He peeked in at my door, my little boy, and beckoned to me.”

“Mr Trevor,” Mycroft started, “Even if your son were still alive, he would be a grown man. This little boy- “

“Do you know what my wife said to me on her deathbed?” Xavier demanded. “She took my hand and looked me in the eye, and she said, 'when you find him, make sure you tell him there wasn’t a single day I didn’t think of him. Not a single damn day I didn’t regret letting him go to Musgrave Hall. And if I find him up there in heaven - and I’m not saying that I will, because he’s alive, he’s out there, I know it - I’ll do the same for you.’ “

Sherlock felt something in his heart twist painfully.

“It’s time for you to sleep, Mr Trevor.” the nurse said. She ushered them out of the room and lowered her voice. “He’s no good when he gets like this. Come back tomorrow afternoon." They heard him grumble something unintelligible before she shut the door.

John rose to meet them, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively. Sherlock just shook his head, and the three men trooped out into the unkempt lawn.

“Where’s the police?” John asked.

“Mycroft sent them away. The footprints on the mud path -”

“If we’re coming back tomorrow afternoon,” Mycroft interrupted, “There’s really no logic to you two driving all the way back home and then here again. Mummy and Daddy live barely ten minutes away. I’m sure they’ll be glad to have us.”

Sherlock groaned. “Us? Will I have to spend the night under the same roof as you?”

“Unfortunately, yes, brother mine. Look at the positives. There won’t be an extra room left, and Doctor Watson can share yours. If he wants to, that is.”

John scoffed. “Of course I want to. Find your own ride home, Mycroft.”

* * *

Sherlock’s room was unsurprisingly impersonal, save for the army doctor currently sprawled across his bed. There was a double bed, a study table pushed into a corner, an office chair. A bookshelf with some rather fascinating tomes. A wardrobe filled with miscellaneous tools and trinkets.

Sherlock was downstairs, talking to his parents, who had noticed how tired John was and sent him up directly. John wanted to stay awake and ask Sherlock about the Trevors, make sure he was okay, but despite his best efforts, he was slowly drifting off. He’d already started dreaming up indistinct shapes and faces when Sherlock’s voice woke him up.

“They mostly use it as a guest bedroom.” he was saying.

“Hmm?”

“By the time my parents bought this house, I had already left for college. I only spent holidays here, so it’s not strictly my room. They call it that for sentimental value.”

Sherlock sat down in the office chair and swivelled it around, munching on an apple. It was the first time John had seen him eat voluntarily in a few days.

“How’d it go with Xavier Trevor?” John asked.

“He thought he saw Victor. He thinks Victor’s still missing.”

“Mycroft hasn’t told him yet?”

“No. It’s hardly something we can explain very easily. 'Hello, my genius sister killed your son because I wouldn’t play with her.'”

“Not easy.” John agreed. “You could just tell him Victor tripped and fell down the well. Actually, Mycroft could easily have told him by now.”

“No. He wants me to do it. Seems to think it’ll give me something called closure.”

“Do you need that?” John asked hesitantly. “Closure?”

“Do you want the truth, John?” he blurted out. “I don’t grieve for Victor. I can’t. Yes, he was my best friend, but I didn’t even remember him for a major part of my life. I remember him now, but very dully, like one of those James Bond movies you always make me watch.”

John got up and plucked the apple core from his hands, discarding it and leaning by the desk. Far enough to give Sherlock his personal space, but close enough to provide comfort, if needed.

“What’s wrong, then?” he asked softly. “I’ve been watching you since Mycroft called. Haven’t seen you this tense since Sherrinford.”

“Eurus is the problem. Humans can do despicable things, I know, but she’s family. I have to stand by her, but sometimes - I look at everything she’s done. Like Victor’s disappearance - it still haunts his parents.”

“You don’t have to stand by her.”

“Yes, I do. She’s ill.”

John just sighed tiredly. “I’ve seen mental illness, and that’s not really it. Psychosis, maybe, but - locking her up in complete isolation is not how you treat it. She’s in there because she’s too dangerous - and too clever. But we’ve had this conversation a thousand times, you know.”

“Yes, we have. Go to sleep, John. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” he agreed.

* * *

Sherlock tiptoed halfway down the stairs and sat down. He’d found a slinky in his room, and he now let it bounce down the stairs, fascinated. There was something strangely elegant about its movement and balance, the orderly arrangement of its rings, the way it righted itself at the bottom of the stairs instead of rolling away chaotically. A door above him opened, and Mycroft’s irritated face poked out.

“What’s making that noise?”

Sherlock shrugged and got up to retrieve the slinky. By the time it had cascaded down the steps a second time, Mycroft was sitting beside him.

“Is Doctor Watson asleep?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How easy it must be for him.” Mycroft mused. “To be able to rest at will. To turn his brain off whenever he wants.”

Another door opened, and their mother peeped up at them from the bottom of the stairs, half-frowning, half-smiling.

“What mischief are you boys up to? Can’t sleep?” she asked. They both shrugged again, and she moved off to the kitchen, muttering something about warm milk.

“Will Eurus ever be well enough?” Sherlock asked, when their mother was out of earshot.

“It’s not a question of _well enough_. She’s just too dangerous. I don’t know what delusion of brotherly love you’re blundering under, brother mine, but _I_  happen to remember that she had to be physically restrained from killing you. She’s far too unstable.”

Sherlock stared at his feet gloomily.

“We’ll have to tell Mr Trevor, you know.” he finally said. “He’s spent all these years waiting for his son. If we give him closure, at least he’ll stop looking and start focusing on moving on. It can make a huge difference - knowing someone’s out there versus knowing they’re not coming back.”

It was at times like these that Mycroft really comprehended the differences between them. He may be smarter than Sherlock, but at the end of the day, Sherlock had what mattered: the humanity that anchored him.

_My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher,_ he had once said to John, _yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?_

He knew the answer to that now. _Only that he has one. He solves people’s mysteries for them because his was unsolved for so long._

“You have to do it, Sherlock.”

“Why me?”

“Just take care not to mention Eurus. Tell him we found Victor’s remains in the well, but we don’t quite know how they ended up there; anything else is purely conjecture.”

“Why can’t you do that?”

“Because you _need_ it, Sherlock. It’ll give you a sense of finality. If you don’t do it, no one else will, and he’ll go to his grave still searching for his son.”

“Fine.” Sherlock muttered, as their mother appeared at the bottom of the stairs, two steaming cups of hot chocolate in hand. “I’ll do it.”

She handed each of them a cup. Mycroft took a sip of his, trying not to feel too nostalgic at the taste of his favourite childhood drink, from before Victor disappeared. Family trips to the beach. Wrestling matches. Baking on rainy days. Kid Sherlock, bubbly and enthusiastic, so far removed from the serious man he was now…

“I’m going to take this to my room.” he said. “Goodnight, Mummy, Sherlock.”

They bid Mycroft goodnight, and their mother took his place beside Sherlock. Sherlock knew she wanted to ask him a thousand questions - make sure he was eating enough, sleeping well, keeping his house clean, not accidentally ingesting any noxious fumes - but she seemed to sense his mood and let him drink in silence.

“How’s Rosie?” she finally asked.

“She’s good. She can walk. Talks a little, just disjointed words, mostly.”

“And how’s John holding up with all the...you know?”

“He’s significantly better now. He still misses her, obviously, but I suppose he’s…”

“Moving on?”

Sherlock caught her eye and ducked his head, blushing slightly, embarrassed.

“I suppose us sharing a room gave it away.” he said.

“I’m your mother, Sherlock. You couldn’t hide it from me if you tried. I look at you two, and I know you’d follow each other to the ends of the Earth.”

Sherlock drained his cup, feeling strangely free now that his mother knew. He’d never officially come out of the closet, and didn’t feel like he needed to. _I am who I am,_ he’d always thought, _no hiding._ From the small smile on his mother’s face, he knew that she approved, and whatever little bit of self-doubt he’d fostered dissolved.

“Are you two still dancing around your feelings, or is there something concrete?” she asked.

“Concrete. Has been for over a month now.”

She squeezed his hand. “Well, I’m glad I can attend at least one son’s wedding before I die. No pressure.”

* * *

_To: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson  
_ _From: Noel Evans_

_Thank you both so much for your lovely emails!_

_For the longest time, I thought of you two as intangible beings, just words on a blog post somewhere. I have since realized that you are real men with hearts of gold, and you’ve touched me in ways you can’t possibly imagine. Thank you for pulling me out of that pond and for the steady correspondence you kept up since then._

_I’ve been seeing the therapist Doctor Watson recommended, and it’s working out beautifully. I convinced mom to visit her a few times, too, to help undo all those years of abuse. It’s a slow, bumpy path to recovery, but we’re both getting there, one tiny step at a time._

_Again, thank you. Thank you for reminding me that there is hope even when everything seems grey._

* * *

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5k hits! Thank you :D

Breakfast at the Holmes’ house that morning was a gloomy affair. Sherlock pushed his food around his plate, weighed down by the knowledge of what he would have to do later that day. John nursed a cup of coffee, checking his phone constantly - Mrs Hudson had called earlier to tell him that Rosie had an upset stomach. Mr and Mrs Holmes tried to indulge them in conversation, and while John tried to be polite and friendly, they could still sense the grey cloud gathering over him. They decided to focus their energy on interrogating Mycroft instead.

“I wish you would tell us more about what’s happening in your life, Mikey.” Mr Holmes said.

“My name is _Mycroft_.”

“We know that, you dolt.” Mrs Holmes said, filling up his plate with a third helping of bacon. “We named you.”

“Mother, no more! I’ll gain weight again.”

“You’ve barely eaten anything, sweetheart.”

John’s phone rang, and he excused himself, almost knocking over the coffee in his hurry. Sherlock took the chance to escape the table and follow him into the adjoining room.

“That was Mrs Hudson.” John said, nearly biting his nails. “Rosie isn’t any better.”

“You could go back home, you know.”

“What? No, I’m fine.” John said, but as he kept glancing at his phone every few seconds, it wasn’t very convincing. “It’s probably nothing. Babies’ stomachs get upset all the time. All part of the process.”

“John, you’re clearly itching to get back to Rosie. Go on, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? This isn’t just any crime scene. I know it’s a big deal for you. Will you be okay dealing with Xavier Trevor alone?”

“I won’t be alone. I have Mycroft. Not that he’s a big consolation, but - he’ll have to do.”

“Well -” John glanced at his phone again. “Okay, then. Promise me you’ll take care, and call me if you need anything or if stuff gets too dangerous.”

“I won’t let you miss your daily fix of danger, I promise. I’ll even tell you every single fiddly detail so that you can write about it in your public love letter.”

“My blog is _not_ a public love letter.” John said indignantly. “I’ll leave right away, then - just let me apologize to your parents for ruining their morning.”

“What are you on about? You haven’t ruined it at all. You’ve given them a chance to grill Mycroft. It’s been _glorious_.”

* * *

Since neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had the patience to sit still and wait for the afternoon, they set off for Xavier Trevor’s house right after breakfast. The nurse greeted them, looking worn-out and stressed.

“He’s just gone off to sleep.” she said.

“Not a problem.” Mycroft said, sitting down on the sofa like he owned the house. “We have all the time in the world. We’ll take your statement till he wakes up.”

“Don’t hold back. We’re not with the police, not exactly.” Sherlock added, sitting down beside him.

She cast a nervous glance at them, then took her place on a wicker chair directly opposite.

“I take it that you live here permanently. Where were you on the night of the break-in?” Sherlock asked.

“Out. I had a night off, so this young intern Steven was filling in for me. I usually don’t like leaving Mr Trevor alone, especially not with Steven - he’s quite irresponsible. But...well… it was a special occasion. My best friend’s birthday.”

“When did you come back?”

“At around 1 AM, I guess. We were supposed to spend the night at her house, but she got called away for some family emergency. I could’ve stayed at her apartment alone but I realized, too late, that I didn’t have the keys. So I came back here to pick up the spare set, and I found Mr Trevor alone and nearly in hysterics. There was that giant 1 on the door, the windows were all wide open, and he was blabbering something about Victor, so I put two and two together and called the police.”

“Where was Steven?”

“Oh, he turned up shortly after the police did. Dead drunk.” she said, her disgust evident. “He ditched Mr Trevor a while after I left and went out partying. Turns out it’s something he does quite regularly when he’s filling in for me. Needless to say, I fired him.”

“Could we talk to him?”

“Yes, but you won’t get anything out of him. He doesn’t even remember whether he left the main door unlocked or not. All he told me was that he made plans for a party that night, but then I asked him to fill in and he desperately needed the money, so he decided to turn up. He left only a few minutes after I did. His exact words were ‘all that old cog does is snore and drool, he doesn’t need me’.”

“What did the police do?” Sherlock asked.

“They were baffled. All they did was make a mighty mess of the living room. Then this one here - er, Microsoft Homes? - turned up and sent them all away.”

“It’s Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft said, with as much dignity as he could muster.

The nurse wasn’t listening. A noise from the bedroom had distracted her, and she got up, motioning them to follow her. She went in first, and they waited outside for a few minutes before she reappeared at the door.

“He’s woken up earlier than usual.” she said. “Now, if he’s in a good mood, I’ll let you talk. Otherwise - it’s pointless, come back later. Go wait in the garden, I’ll just wheel him out.”

The two brothers tramped out into the unkempt garden. Sherlock drew patterns in the mud with his foot, while Mycroft warily watched him out of the corner of his eye.

“Quit staring, Microsoft.” he snapped.

“I’m not staring. Do you remember what you have to do?”

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?” asked Mycroft.

“Yes. Tell him we found his son’s remains in a well a few days ago, and don’t mention Eurus. Keep her hidden for another couple of decades until we’re all dead and decaying.”

“You’re angry with me.”

“You kept me in the dark for _years_. How would _you_ feel if you were in my place?”

Mycroft took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. “Sherlock Holmes, look at me.” he said forcefully. “Has it never occurred to you that she’s still putting up an act? Five years of plotting and scheming for what - a hug? A few violin duets once a month?”

This got Sherlock’s attention. He’d always had an uneasy feeling where Eurus was concerned, and he’d put it down to guilt, but now he was starting to wonder if it was something else. Something more like frustration at a puzzle he couldn’t solve...

Mycroft didn’t wait for him to answer. “I know what you’re thinking, brother mine - she just wants to be ‘loved’. Familial affection can mean a lot to people like John Watson - and to you, apparently - but do not fool yourself into thinking that it means a fig to her. Or to your old friend Moriarty. Do you think he would’ve stepped down from his throne of crime if his mother hugged him and asked him to?”

Sherlock shook his head, feeling too chastised to speak. _Just like old times_ , he thought.

“Our sister is every bit as bad as him. The only difference between them is the environment they had to flourish in.”

He stopped talking abruptly as the nurse wheeled Xavier Trevor out and towards them. He seemed much calmer today, loosely pinching the yarn between his fingers instead of twisting it forcefully. He almost beamed at them, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Sorry about yesterday, boys.” he said. “The arthritis really gets to me sometimes. And then, of course, there’s the business with Victor…”

He trailed off, staring into the distance. They let him sit in silence for a few minutes, then the nurse lightly patted his shoulder.

“Ah. Yes. Where was I? Did you find out what was going on here last night?”

“Someone disguised as Victor broke in to give you a scare.” Mycroft explained. “We don’t know why.”

“So where’s my son?”

Mycroft nudged Sherlock, who felt like there was something lodged at the back of his throat. He swallowed and knelt down so that he was at face level with Mr Trevor.

“The thing about that.” he started, but Mr Trevor was looking at him so intently that he lost his nerve. Behind him, Mycroft tapped his foot impatiently. He took another deep breath and continued, trying to speak as slowly as possible. “I’m sorry, Mr Trevor, but your son is dead.”

Mr Trevor took a few seconds to process this. “What?”

“He’s dead.” Sherlock repeated. “He’s been dead for years. We found his bones at the bottom of a well near Musgrave Hall. He must’ve fallen in somehow.”

“His...his bones? How do you know-”

“We had plenty of medical tests done.” Mycroft cut in. “They’re his bones all right.”

Mr Trevor leaned back in the wheelchair and closed his eyes. “I don’t believe you.” he said firmly, and a solitary tear rolled down his cheek. “I know he’s still alive. He has to be.”

Sherlock felt, for the first time, a fissure of rage. Eurus had no right to take someone else’s child away like this. John was right; nothing justified cold-blooded murder.

“I’m very sorry, Mr Trevor.” he said. “But it’s the truth. If it would help you, we could hold a proper funeral. Mycroft will bear the full cost.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.

For a long time, Xavier Trevor just stared at his hands. Then he raised his head and nodded.

“I believe you.” he said. “My wife and I chased a phantom for far too long. I’ll need to see the bones, but I believe you. I don’t want another funeral.”

He refused to speak after that. The nurse nodded morosely at them, then wheeled him back in. Sherlock let his posture relax for a minute, feeling strangely relieved. He turned around and started down the dirt path to the gate. He would go to his parents’ for lunch and then go home, he decided.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft called, something missing from his normally authoritative voice.

Sherlock ignored him. Maybe he could get his father to pack up one of his home remedies for Rosie’s stomach. John probably would’ve reached by now; he should text to find out about her.

“Sherlock!”

“What?”

“It’s mummy. She’s in the hospital. Heart attack.”

* * *

John dashed up the stairs, trying not to leave too many dirty footprints. There was a proper downpour outside, and he’d stepped out of the cab smack into a mud puddle. It was a miracle they’d let him into the hospital, really. They almost hadn’t, but then he’d mentioned Mycroft Holmes and the doors opened almost magically.

He caught sight of the Holmes family at the end of the corridor. Mr Holmes was reading a magazine, but his hands shook so badly that it was clear he was only trying to appear calm for his sons. Mycroft was pacing up and down, constantly barking orders into his phone, no doubt calling for the best doctors in the country. Sherlock was huddled in a chair, knees to his chest, coat wrapped protectively around himself.

John slid into the seat next to him. “Hey. Got your text. How is she?”

“We don’t know. Still in the operating room. Why are you dripping?”

“It’s raining.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said vaguely. “Is it?”

John nudged him, and he finally looked up, lips pursed with worry. They held eye contact for a heartbeat, then John pulled him into a hug, stroking his hair comfortingly.

“She’ll be fine, you know. She’s a robust, healthy woman, and it’s only her first heart attack.”

Sherlock just mumbled something inaudible into his shoulder and held on tighter, ignoring the water from his soggy jumper. John let him stay. He couldn’t have extricated himself from that octopus grip even if he wanted to. Sherlock finally nodded and pulled away, then had second thoughts and wrapped John in his coat with him.

“How’s Rosie?”

“Perfectly fine. She ate a funny banana, that’s all. Don’t worry about her.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Food and extra clothes. Here, have a sandwich.”

Sherlock took a bite, nodded his thanks and went back to staring at the clock. Mr Holmes took one, too, but Mycroft gave John such a glare that he hastily crammed the sandwich back into its box. He didn’t particularly blame Mycroft for being so touchy; his family was the one thing he actually cared about, after all.

The waiting was the worst part. Time seemed to drag on at half its normal speed, and he could only imagine what it must be like for Sherlock, who was a generally impatient man. John had spent enough time in hospital rooms to know that staring at a clock didn’t help, but he didn’t have the heart to say anything to Sherlock. He settled for massaging Sherlock’s hands instead; his muscles were wound tighter than steel.

The doctor came out a while later to tell them that Mrs Holmes was out of the operating room but still critical. John knew that face; it was the “I don’t know anything for sure but I also don’t want to get your hopes up in case she dies” face, the one he’d never quite learnt how to use. After all, he was used to being a doctor in the thick of battle. Everything was instantaneous. You died or lived; things rarely hung in limbo the way they did here.

He leaned back in the chair, stretched out his legs, and prepared himself for a long wait.

* * *

 


	26. Chapter 26

“You should go home for the night. Get some rest.” Sherlock said.

“I’m not going to leave you alone.” John said firmly.

Sherlock nodded his gratitude. It was only a perfunctory suggestion, anyway.

“Come on, we’ve been sitting here for hours.” John said. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

Sherlock followed him out. The rain had stopped, but the evening sky was still gloomy and overcast. After a while, he dug around in his pocket for a cigarette, but obviously, there wasn’t one. He wondered if he could give John the slip and sneak one from the old man across the street, but then gave up on the idea. He settled for dragging John back into the hospital. Wondering if there had been any developments in the last five minutes, he looked hopefully at Mycroft, who shook his head and continued pacing.

“I think we should get Eurus.” Mr Holmes said.

Mycroft stopped pacing. “What? Why?”

“I promised your mother that if she ended up on the deathbed, I would get the family together one last time. She vowed to do the same for me. She would want to see her daughter, Mycroft.”

“No. Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous.”

“Dad’s right.” Sherlock interrupted. “Come on, Mycroft, what could possibly go wrong? Sherrinford to the hospital, then back to Sherrinford. Just put maximum security on her.”

“You aren’t thinking straight.” Mycroft said. “I can guarantee this won’t end well.”

“We are perfectly capable of thinking for ourselves, young man.” Mr Holmes said sternly.

Mycroft sighed. “Doctor Watson? What do you think?”

All three of them turned to John. “Er.” he said awkwardly, “I’m not sure I should intervene. It’s a family matter.”

“Don’t be daft.” Mr Holmes said. “You are family.”

“Oh. Thanks. Uh...it’s really not a good idea for her to leave Sherrinford.”

He felt Sherlock slump in dismay beside him. For a moment, he tried to put himself in Sherlock’s situation. Harry locked up, his mother in the hospital...no matter how dysfunctional his family was, he’d want to be together one last time.

“But...she does have the right to see her mother one last time in case...you know.” he said.

Sherlock and Mr Holmes turned imploringly to Mycroft. He sighed and threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine. But the earliest I can get her here is by tomorrow morning.”

* * *

It was well past midnight, and Sherlock was pacing up and down now. Mr Holmes and John were both asleep, and Mycroft sat at some distance from them, staring unwaveringly ahead. After a while, Sherlock sat down beside him and took a deep breath.

“Mycroft.”

“Hm.”

“Something fishy’s been going on.”

“This is hardly the time for tuna sandwich jokes, brother mine.”

“I’m not going to crack one. Will you listen?”

Something in Sherlock’s tone alarmed him, so Mycroft turned to face him and nodded. “I’m listening.”

Sherlock began telling him about all the events which had taken place since Irene’s visit to Sherrinford, leaving out the few details that seemed too personal. All five break-ins, what they’d discovered about Eurus and Irene, Mrs Hudson’s connection with Sebastian Moran, the Golem’s death, Noel’s attempted suicide and the consequences (he omitted the details of his hilltop conversation with John, only briefly mentioning that the water had evoked some traumatic memories of his time in Afghanistan), Rosie’s kidnapping and Molly signing the body away, the anagram formed by the names, the numbers and colours that he still hadn’t figured out…

Mycroft listened carefully, expression growing ever graver. When Sherlock had finally finished talking, Mycroft leaned back thoughtfully, mind too occupied to mock him for not solving everything.

“The crimes with red numbers…” Mycroft finally said, “They coincide with murder. Red five, Irene Adler’s mother murdered. Red three, Noel Evans’ father murdered. Red one…”

“...Victor Trevor, murdered. Victor Trevor - _Redbeard_. So the yellow is…”

“Yellowbeard. Someone’s trying to get in your head.”

“We already knew that.” Sherlock muttered. “This just confirms it. The question is - who? Sebastian Moran?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I would say Eurus, but to the best of my knowledge, Sherrinford is quite secure.”

Sherlock decided to ignore how readily Mycroft was prepared to suspect his own sister. He was slowly beginning to realize that he’d never really been fair to Mycroft; never thought about how Victor Trevor’s death might have affected _him_. About how in all the photos of his early childhood, Mycroft looked almost jolly, but got progressively more careworn over the years. The taller he got, the more he receded into the background, the more his frown deepened. From what Sherlock had heard, his parents had certainly been ill-equipped to deal with the whole Eurus situation. Mycroft had been the one who took charge and sent her to Sherrinford, shouldering a responsibility far beyond his years. It was as if his entire growing-up process had been condensed into the few years between Eurus’ birth and her final incarceration in Sherrinford...

“Who knows about Redbeard?” Mycroft asked him. “And I want the full list; don’t limit it to your adversaries.”

Sherlock forced himself back to the matter at hand. “Eurus. You. Our parents. John. Lestrade knows Eurus as an escaped mental patient, unless you told him something else. Magnussen knew the word Redbeard, but I don’t know what else he knew.”

“In any case, it’s safe to assume he didn’t share his information; he preferred to keep secrets until he could use them as leverage. Who else?”

“Irene Adler knew about Eurus, but I highly doubt she’s behind this. She’s just trying to get her old life back. Moriarty knew everything, and he probably would’ve told his accomplices, most notably Moran.”

“What’s going to happen next?”

“You already know the answer to that, Mycroft.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Sherlock glanced at John to make sure he was still asleep, then lowered his voice. “ _You are next_. They don’t follow a set time pattern, so there’s no way to know when - John and I are going to be visited by Mary.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

“I have a plan. But…” Sherlock swallowed his pride. “I’m going to need your help.”

* * *

For all the time she had sent in psychiatric wards, Eurus _hated_ hospitals. She hated the stupid plastic bracelets, the drab white corridors decorated with crayon drawings, the doctors with their fake smiles and reassurances. They always promised they’d let her out as soon as she was better, but they _never_ deemed her better.

 _You did a bad thing,_ her childhood psychiatrist used to say _, and the first step to recovery is accepting it._

 _The world is overpopulated,_ Eurus always spat back bitterly _, what’s one human more or less?_

_That’s not the point. You can’t choose who lives and dies. It’s not for you to decide, child._

_Who decides, then? An imaginary man in the clouds?_

Her psychiatrist would sigh wearily. _All your answers are questions, Eurus._

She didn’t mind this particular visit, though. At least it gave her a chance to get off that blasted island. It made her miss the freedom of movement she had enjoyed before her brothers arrived at Sherrinford.

As she climbed up the stairs, the handcuffs chafed at her wrist and she stopped momentarily. Her nurse put a hand on her shoulder to steady her, and Eurus turned back to smile fondly, careful to hide it from the two guards on either side of her.

Her favourite nurse. The one without whom nothing would’ve been possible.

* * *

The doctor had finally let them into Mrs Holmes’ room, declaring that she was somewhat stable but not completely out of danger yet. She lay unconscious, her husband in a chair next to her, her sons and John standing stiffly by. On Mycroft’s insistence, John kept a weather eye on her monitors, feeling rather useless in this scene of family mourning.

The door creaked open and Eurus peeked in, looking as innocent as she could manage with handcuffs around her wrists and a tracker band on her ankle.

“Oh. I’ll just...I’ll be back.” John muttered. “Will you be fine, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded and let him go, deciding that no good could possibly come out of him being in the same room as Eurus. She smiled demurely at John as he passed her in the doorway.

“Oh, don’t leave on my account.” she said sweetly. He gave her a scathing look and left the room.

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, then tilted her head at the guards. “Can you tell them to wait outside?” she asked Mycroft.

“No.” he said stoutly.

“You still don’t trust me.”

“You haven’t given me reason to.”

“Kids, please.” Mr Holmes said wearily. “Not here. Just keep your guards with you, dear. I’m sure they won’t disturb us.”

Silently grateful for the intervention, Mycroft turned away from Eurus. She came in followed by her two guards, who maintained a reverential distance from Mrs Holmes. The Holmes crowded around her bed, an awkward silence in the room. After a while, Sherlock found himself unable to bear the stifling atmosphere anymore. There was so much they should talk about, but in the wake of their mother’s illness, everything seemed rather inconsequential.

“I’m going out for some fresh air.” he announced.

“I’ll come with you.” Eurus said, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Sherlock alone with Eurus again, even guarded, but he couldn’t control her every movement - not around their father, at least.

She looked at him and scoffed. “We’ll stay right outside the door and I’ll take my guards with me. Fine?”

He nodded reluctantly, eyes following them out.

* * *

_Where are you? -SH_

_Getting food. Stay with your family. Everything fine?_

_Yes. You? -SH_

_Yes. Sorry I left. Just can’t be around her right now._

_Understandable. Will text you when she leaves. -SH_

_You might as well talk to her now. Get it over with._

_Maybe. -SH_

_Be careful._

_As if. -SH_

“You want a cigarette.” Eurus interrupted.

“How do you know?”

“You keep pawing around in your pocket.”

Sherlock stowed his phone away securely. “I could be looking for something else.”

“But you aren’t. I can get you some, if you’d like. I’m sure one of them -” she tilted her head at the guards, “- has a pack.”

For a moment, Sherlock was tempted, but then his phone buzzed in his pocket and he shook his head. Staying off narcotics and drugs was one promise he could keep.

“I worry that you’re angry with me.” he said, the words coming out in a nervous rush.

“That’s nice of you.”

“I’m serious. Eurus, I promised to bring you home. I didn’t. And you’re not exactly the forgiving type.”

“It’s fine.” she said offhandedly. “I know you can’t. I’m just too dangerous. Besides…"

There was something strangely mocking about her tone as she sidled closer to him, almost whispering in his ear.

“You know I don’t keep grudges. I act on them.”

She went back into their mother’s room, leaving Sherlock distinctly unsettled.

* * *

A while later, the doctor sent them all out into the corridor, wanting to check on Mrs Holmes. They waited in silence, holding their breath, too keyed up to sit still. John came back with the food, took one look at them, then took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock leaned into him, grateful for the silent support. They stayed like that for what felt like an interminable period of time before the doctor finally came out, expression inscrutable.

“She’s going to be fine.” he said promptly, and Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t even know he had been holding. “She’s a healthy woman, especially for her age. She’ll probably gain consciousness in a few hours, and she’ll have to stay here for some days. When we send her home, strict bedrest for a few weeks…”

The doctor went into more detail, and Sherlock listened carefully, absorbing everything. Lots of rest, no sudden scares, no stress of any kind…Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and knew exactly what they were both thinking.

They sent Eurus back to Sherrinford.

* * *

It was late evening, and Mrs Holmes had just fallen asleep again, presumably for the night. Sherlock pulled John out into the corridor, and they went downstairs. John chattered away about bedding and nightclothes and suggested he take a trip to the Holmes’ place to pick their stuff up. The moment they stepped outside, Sherlock shut him up with a kiss, suddenly very aware that he hadn’t even brushed his teeth.

John didn’t care. _At least he’s here, solid and alive_ , he thought.

“You should go home.” Sherlock said when they finally broke apart. “I’ll be staying here for a while.”

“I don’t mind camping out in a hospital for a few days. I’ve done it before.”

“That’s not the point. Rosie’s all alone, you know. We made a promise.”

“Oh. Yes.”

Truth be told, John missed his daughter terribly, but he’d been repressing it in favour of looking after Sherlock until his mother was better. Sherlock looked at him sternly, as if he knew exactly what was going on in his head.

“I’m not the baby here, John.”

“If you say so.”

“I do love you, in case you forgot.”

“Can’t forget.” John said, reaching out to tie Sherlock’s loose scarf properly. “Not if I tried. It still feels like a miracle.”

“I’m going to miss you terribly.”

“Me too, love. Now be nice to Mycroft.”

“I’m always nice.” he complained, following John back inside.

* * *

 


End file.
